


Broken Open

by montmorency



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-17
Updated: 2011-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-21 12:00:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 52,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/montmorency/pseuds/montmorency
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally posted at my LJ account.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at my LJ account.

Tommy Joe Ratliff looks across the bar, the dance floor. Looking for Adam. Adam, who left him with a whisky and a martini a long time ago. Like, ten minutes, even.

Tommy tries to be cool about this. He doesn’t want to _want_ to know where Adam is every second. That shit’s so uncool. Tommy understands that his own brand of cool comes from being minimalist, being quiet, staying in one place, letting himself be followed, not doing the following. By waiting till a finger beckons before he moves forward. Not by jumping up on stage in front of thousands of people he doesn’t know with nothing but a wireless microphone for protection. He knows – _knows_ – he doesn’t have Adam’s kind of cool. Adam has loud, sparkly, motormouth cool. Adam has stage presence, the kind you can’t look away from. Adam is a beautiful boy, tall and confident. Tommy is petite and tiny and could be beat up by a thirteen-year-old tomboy, most likely. Tommy has trouble believing that Adam ever used to be fat or emotionally retarded. Tommy knows shy in a way he’s sure Adam never has.

The irony that is practically poking him in the figurative eye is that Tommy is the straight one while Adam comes across as more masculine, more alpha, more boy-next-door. And that shit ain’t right.

But right’s got nothing to do with it. Because Tommy’s straight and Adam’s gay, end of fucking story. It’s even kind of cool that they’re breaking stereotypes here; maybe someday the world will stop salaciously gossiping about who’s queer and who’s not. Maybe someday some gay guy or gal can go on a program like American Idol and talk about their sweetheart without worrying if it will make people judge them. Tommy gets how unfair it is, that Kris Allen can talk about his wife and no one will think twice, but if Adam mentions a boyfriend then it’s no longer about his singing ability – it’s about his method of fucking. Anyway, everything on TV’s just a big propaganda campaign for heterosexuality. Tommy looks down on heterosexuals who don’t understand what it’s like to be gay, to be other, and who make no effort to understand.

Tommy’s always been attracted to the gay subculture; they provide an instant family of outcasts, brothers and sisters against the world, and that’s unbelievably cool. Their very subjugation and their fight against it are badges of honor. Tommy spent most of high school hanging out with dykes and fags. He even thought for awhile that he should be a queer because he was already a freaky weird little thing, hated sports, hated exercise, hated gym class, loved nothing but punk and metal. Even his parents didn’t appear to believe him when he told them he had asked a girl to the junior prom. He finally gave being gay a try when he was seventeen and his lezbro Jillian’s friend Skyler clearly had a crush on him. Skyler was cute and diffident and Tommy didn’t have lots of experience of the lustful kind yet, so he and Skyler made out and traded hand jobs in out-of-the-way places and were secret boyfriends for about two months.

But as Jillian said in the breakup aftermath, when it came to Tommy, the gay simply didn’t take. Tommy is straight, and years later he still feels like a shit for treating Skyler like an experiment. He didn’t mean to but he didn’t understand back then. Skyler’s a lawyer now and has a secret boyfriend that the people at his law firm don’t know about, but Tommy’s happy to know that Skyler has someone. He hears this shit through Jillian.

More irony. The closet case has someone to love, the straight guy doesn’t.

So Jillian is on the dance floor in this Valley club where no one pays attention to him or to Adam. Or maybe they’re just well-behaved enough to not show it. Maybe. Except for the twink who’s blowing Adam in the john right now.

The club is packed to the rafters with intimidatingly gorgeous people of any and all sexual persuasions. Not one of them appeals to Tommy in a sexual way. Tommy’s been getting way too intimate with his own hand since auditioning for Adam’s band. It’s been a whole fucking year. He hasn’t so much as kissed anyone but Adam for over a year, if you don’t count the fans who kiss _him_. Which, by the way, weird.

Tommy scratches at his wrist and downs the remaining whisky. He hiccups, then decides to finish off Adam’s martini. The music is kind of deafening, 80s new wave. Good beat but not really Tommy’s thing.

Jillian and her total butch man-date, who goes by Heath even though her birth name is Heather, saunter over to the bar, slightly sweaty from dancing.

“See? Isn’t this place cool!” Jillian hollers over the music.

Tommy gives a sideways smile and fist-bumps Jillian.

“Where’s the sex god?” Jillian hollers.

Tommy shrugs and points his chin toward the back of the bar.

“Twink?” she mouths in an exaggerated fashion.

Tommy nods, his lip slightly curled. He doesn’t like the thought of swapping second-degree spit with Valley twinks. Totally unfairly, he wants Adam’s kisses entirely to himself. Not that he’s going to share that thought with Jillian. He’s still making up to her for breaking her friend’s heart years ago.

Jillian snorts and Heath rolls her eyes. Jillian signals to the bartender. “You want more?” she asks Tommy.

Tommy nods. “Jameson is good.”

“Huh?”

“Jameson!” he shouts. He tries to shove a twenty in her hand but she won’t take it as she turns to pay. She puts another whisky in front of him, with shots for herself and Heath.

Tommy shrugs again. He twirls back and forth on the barstool. He shoves his hands deeper into the pockets of his hoodie.

Jillian and Heath look at each other and then at Tommy. “We need to find someone for you!” Jillian bellows. “Heath, let’s go hunt for hot straight chicks!” she adds, scanning the club just as Tommy feels hands on his waist, lifting him from the barstool.

“Fucker,” Tommy mutters as his boots his the floor. He tries to pry the hands from his waist and when that fails tilts his head way back and sticks his tongue out at Adam, who is (just admit it) towering over him and looking unbearably smug. Fuck. Tommy would like some of the kind of stress release Adam’s been getting.

“New Order!” yells Adam. “Come on!”

Tommy doesn’t dance, not unless he has his bass strapped securely around him. And then only because he’s bopping to the beat.

“Can’t dance, you know that,” he says and even though it’s drowned out Adam seems to just know what he said and whispers in his ear, “I’ll do the dancing for you.”

Tommy squirms but Adam’s got a firm grip; bear-hugs him from behind and steers him into the midst of sweaty bouncing bodies. Adam’s hands are all over him and Tommy doesn’t lie to himself – he likes it. More and more all the time. He’s started to wonder if the problem with Skyler was not that Skyler was a boy per se but that Skyler was a twink and maybe twinks aren’t Tommy’s type in guys. In girls, Tommy’s type is petite and pale and shy and so was Skyler. Maybe Tommy’s problem is that his girl preferences do not translate to guys.

Because Adam is nothing like Skyler and nothing like the girls Tommy’s slept with. Tommy knows fucking well that he can’t crush on Adam. It helps that Adam seems easily able to separate the playfulness of flirting from the reality of lust. There’s a line that neither of them crosses. Tommy can see the line with intense clarity. It’s about a micron thick (Tommy isn’t even sure why he know what a micron is) but it’s definitely there and they both know it. It molds around their bodies as they move together and it keeps them apart. When Adam kisses him on-stage, they don’t really touch. Not in the way that matters. It might look like their tongues are tangling together but that’s just a stage trick. No secret messages pass between them. But Tommy has dark thoughts; he wants to have something of Adam that nobody else has and for awhile he thought Adam was, like, not going out with anyone, not having sex, not even snogging anyone and Tommy liked that thought a lot. The reality is that so many people throw themselves at Adam that it seems impossible Adam can resist them all. Strangely, lots of women at the concerts seem very interested in Tommy but that’s not his thing, hooking up with random women.

The line that Adam and Tommy don’t step over – it’s a good thing, Tommy reminds himself all the time. He just wasn’t expecting it to hurt so much, wanting and wanting and never getting. He doesn’t even know what the fuck he would do with Adam if he could have him. He only knows that the hormonal teenaged confusion that he thought he’d left behind is reanimating itself a whole fucking decade later and he’s way too old for that now. And if it’s an early midlife crisis, then he’s totally fucked.

Turns out it’s another good thing Adam doesn’t need any help manhandling Tommy around on a stage or on the overheated dance floor of this Valley dive club with “Blue Monday” jackhammering a beat into his skull, as strangers bounce into him and away, because Tommy’s mind is way off on tangents. Adam won’t even let him turn around; holds Tommy against him with an arm slung over his chest. The other arm is there, too, gripping his hip. Adam undulates at the waist and makes sure that Tommy’s scrawny frame moves with him.

Adam’s body is incredibly warm, even through his hoodie and Metallica tee-shirt he can feel it. Adam leans over him and rubs his cheek against Tommy’s. Tommy can’t help grinning just a little bit. Some of the other clubsters see what’s happening and smile. Tommy smiles back. He knows what they’re thinking and doesn’t care. They seem friendly, not voyeur-ish. He wonders if whoever sexed Adam up in the men’s room is around, but he can’t see any bottle-blond elvish twinkly thing glaring at him jealously, so it’s all good.

He feels Adam’s lips against the shell of his ear and represses a quiver.

“I love this song,” Adam coos right into his ear, humming to the tune.

Tommy turns his head and Adam moves so that Tommy can whisper into Adam’s ear. “You think they think we’re together?”

Adam laughs and put his lips against Tommy’s ear again and whispers back, “I should be so lucky.” Adam’s hands start wandering all over his arms, his chest, his stomach, even his thighs. “God, you’re such a babe,” Adam breathes.

That shit hurts. Tommy knows Adam is just flirting in his usual Adam-ish way, teasing sweetly. He knows that Adam loves him _but not like that_. He is pretty sure that Adam doesn’t have a clue how Tommy feels, or he wouldn’t act like this, because Adam isn’t mean. Adam treats people well, even the one-night stands. That last is only a guess from what Tommy can tell, because no, Adam doesn’t discuss his sex life with Tommy. There are no words between them for what they do on the stage and off the stage. Adam is a motormouth but Tommy doesn’t like to talk about feelings – his or anyone else’s – so Adam respects that in him, cuts him lots of slack.

They wind up making assumptions about each other’s thoughts, that way, and they’re probably wrong, and Adam’s hand is getting way too close to Tommy’s junk so he twists in Adam’s arms and comes face to face, moves back to try to get some space even as he’s play-pouting at Adam. The joy on Adam’s face is what Tommy lives for now; he feels like a small dark star rotating shyly around a supernova, basking in the glow sometimes, but mostly being eclipsed. He hides in Adam’s penumbra and he likes it there.

But Adam’s grabbing his belt with both hands, hauling Tommy’s groin flush against his own. Still dancing, and Tommy’s hands clutch at Adam’s biceps and he leans back, trying for some personal space, as he lets Adam do the dancing, moving Tommy’s pliant body wherever he wants. Tommy has no ass at all but Adam’s hands find it anyway and squeeze. He leans over to lick Tommy’s neck and Tommy’s ticklish there sometimes and twitches. Tommy wonders briefly why that micron doesn’t stop the cooling dampness from Adam’s tongue. But nothing stops Adam. Fucking force of nature.

Tommy’s glad, as he often has a reason to be, that while he looks twelve he’s actually nearly thirty and has life experience and has passed his sexual peak and that means he is skilled at not popping boners at inappropriate times. The truth is, and it hurts Tommy even to think it, that if Adam hoisted Tommy over his shoulder and took him to the nearest flat surface, Tommy wouldn’t say no. He would take a one-night stand as fast as the sluttiest boytoy in Club Cobra if that’s the only way he could have Adam. Only his own still-viable straightness stands between dignity and desire.

The song switches to more New Wave synth-pop, another song that’s probably older than Tommy. Adam knows the song, no surprise there.

“Come on, come on,” Adam says against his ear and Tommy doesn’t know what Adam is asking of him, but the song is so peppy and upbeat. Tommy’s not especially in the mood because that fucking twink is still on his mind and pissing him off. Adam clearly _is_ in the mood, though, gently releasing Tommy and moving his hips and arms in that sexy way he does on stage. Tommy feels kind of stupid but does his best to dance along in a slow, desultory glamgoth way. It’s not like anyone notices him when he’s with Adam, and Adam’s getting into his own little world now. It’s pretty apparent that men, women and trannies are all starting to watch Adam surreptitiously and is it hot in here or what?

Someone smacks into Tommy’s back and propels him against Adam. Adam catches him with a loud laugh. Tommy feels envious eyes boring into him from all sides and he takes the opportunity to say Let’s leave in Adam’s ear. Adam grins and shakes his head. He grabs Tommy’s face in his hands and kisses him hard on the mouth, then kisses his ear with a mumbled “Come on release me baby.” It takes Tommy way too long to realize that Adam’s quoting a line from the song. He knows it’s not really meant for him, it’s just Adam in the joy of dancing and being with people. In the mirrored wall Tommy sees a fey boy with purple hair behind them, staring at Adam. What a surprise, there’s that fucking twink. How dare he dye his hair purple, he’s not even remotely cool enough to do that. Tommy turns his face up to Adam and fuck if Adam isn’t winking at the purple wonderboy.

Well, that’s enough, Tommy’s through with this shit. He came tonight to be with his friend Jillian and her new girlfriend, and Adam asked to come and now Tommy’s got to share him with a whole crowd and he’s hardly seen Jillian at all and --

Tommy runs his hand across Adam’s chest and finds the nipple piercing through the tee shirt and tweaks it hard. Adam reacts immediately, folding in on himself like he’s been kicked in the balls. He gives Tommy a look of stunned betrayal.

“You little bitch,” Adam says, but Tommy’s already marching towards the exit. He waves at Jillian, hardly stopping. She and Heath look puzzled and Tommy feels bad about that but he can’t stay in here another second.

Jillian grabs his arm. “Look out, here comes your baby,” Jillian whispers in his ear.

“Not mine,” says Tommy, kissing Jillian’s cheek without looking at her and slipping out of her grasp.

* * *

Outside the cold air feels wonderful. Tommy’s nearly to his car when he hears Adam yelling across the parking lot, “Tommy Joe, stop!”

Fuck that. Adam can find a ride home. Adam can call a cab, or beg Jillian, or hell, there are only about a hundred guys inside the club who would willingly take Adam to the ends of the earth if he so much as simpered at them.

He thumbs the door remote and the lock snicks open and Tommy’s got a hand on the door handle when Adam catches up and Adam’s big hand covers Tommy’s so he can’t open the door, and Adam’s leaning in and pinning him to the side of the car.

“What the fuck, Tommy?”

“Going home,” Tommy mutters, stubbornly not looking back at Adam.

“I thought we were having fun.”

 _You were_ , Tommy thinks. But he doesn’t say it. Adam’s right; he’s a little bitch.

“I’m sorry I called you that,” Adam says.

And how come Adam can read his mind? And furthermore how come Adam _can’t_ read his mind, because if he could, he’d know and he’d stop teasing. He would turn all solicitous and apologetic and be all Tommy-I’m-sorry-I-wasn’t-misleading-you-on-purpose-I-don’t-love-you-like-that-you’re-my-friend-I-love-you-like-a-friend.

“Give me some space.”

Adam backs off fast. Tommy uses the moment to fling open the car door and slip inside, but he can’t shut the door because there is Adam again, his big body in the way, shoving the door back open and crouching down and looking at Tommy in that intense way that means he is worried.

“You’re angry with me,” says Adam.

Right now Tommy hates that reasonable tone.

Adam won’t stop. “Talk to me.”

“Can I go?”

“Please, tell me. What did I do?”

There are other people going back and forth from cars. Tommy sure as fuck can’t do this here. Not here. “Not here,” he says out loud.

Adam stands and looks around, crouches again. “I have to get my jacket, okay, wait for me, yeah?”

Tommy drums his fingers on the steering wheel and nods and stares out the windshield.

Adam stands, hesitates. “Don’t go anywhere,” he warns and then trots off to the club entrance. As soon as he’s inside the club, Tommy slams the car door shut and guns the motor. Narrowly missing a couple of drag queens, he peels out of the parking lot with no other thought than to get to his small apartment and be alone.

He’s racing down Glen Oaks when his phone beeps. He glances at Jillian’s text.

 _Whered u go. glambert looks mad._

Tommy pops in his Bluetooth and hits speed-dial.

“I don’t feel good,” he says.

“Hey, Thomasina Josephina, I tried to tell him that. Were you his ride?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Heath offered him a ride but I think he’s calling a car.”

“Thanks, Jilly, sorry, just.”

“I know, darling, don’t worry. Let’s do Vic’s Smokehouse on Monday, ‘kay? Take care of yourself.”

Tommy loves Jillian for knowing him so well and letting him off the hook.

* * *

Tommy also loves his new apartment. It’s all his, no more roomies, thanks entirely to being in the band. It’s in a nice place, a forties apartment building with a pretty courtyard. It’s still in the Valley but that’s okay, he likes Burbank. Now that he has a car that doesn’t break down, he can go to the ocean anytime he likes. His neighbors are a bunch of sweet, feeble, walker-using retirees so it’s dead quiet after midnight. Stray sounds of traffic a boulevard away are muted.

There’s not much furniture, just stuff he picked up at the swap meet or that came from his old apartment. Tommy has never felt he needed crap just for the sake of having it. Other than CDs and guitars and a car that doesn’t break down, he’s not interested in owning clutter.

Coffee seems necessary so he beelines for the kitchen, tossing his hoodie on the sofa and setting his cell on the pass-through. He turns on the light over the sink, just to have something on. The rest of the lights he leaves off.

His phone beeps and Tommy practically jumps a foot in the air. He approaches it slowly and picks it up as though it might bite him.

The text reads, _Nearly there._

Tommy crosses to the front window and peers out, staying in the shadow of the curtains that his mother put up for him. A town car pulls over to the curb.

Tommy moves away from the window and chews on his lip. Fucking A, why can’t Adam just go back to his fancy house in the hills where Tommy picked him up earlier in the evening?

Boots thud on the steps up to his unit and stop. There’s a pounding fist. “Tommy Joe, open the door.”

Tommy shuffles slowly towards the door. It’s the gravity effect, the supernova reeling in the small dark star.

“Tommy!” Adam pounds again.

Tommy leans against the door carefully, quietly, fussing with his phone.

Adam’s voice starts again and it’s quieter now, as though Adam knows exactly where Tommy is. “Let’s not be mad, Tommy. Open up, let me in.”

Tommy waits. The bright line between them is now the width of an old wooden door in Burbank, and Tommy still feels the connection between them. Is Adam leaning on the door, too?

“I know you’re in there, your car’s parked outside.”

Tommy waits.

“Tell me what I did wrong.”

And waits.

“I sent the car service away. You want me to sleep on your doormat?”

Tommy thumbs his phone. He opens a text message to Adam’s number and types _Go away._

He hears Adam’s phone chime. Crap, if Adam texts back he’ll know where Tommy is. Tommy quickly hits vibrate on his own phone.

He hears Adam sigh on the other side of the door.

His phone vibrates. _You gave me a key._

Shit, that was true. _u have to respec t my privicy_ , he types.

He hears a chime and then a snort. _Shoulda thought abt that before giving me key._

Tommy types, _leave me alone_

Adam answers, _No way._

Tommy: _bet u dont have key with_

Adam: _Tommy Joe Ratliff i am coming in NOW_

Tommy: _this is stupid_

Adam: _yah it is open the fuckin door_

Tommy moves away from the door. It sounds like Adam doesn’t have the key with him, in which case he can sit in the dark and wait until Adam gets bored and calls the car service to come back and get him.

Tommy pussyfoots to the far side of the living room and perches on the arm of the old sofa. He feels trapped, and he feels ridiculous because what the fuck is he doing? This is the best job he’s ever had and this kind of behavior is going to destroy it. Then he’ll need to move again. On the other hand, he’s lived this long on instinct and principle and he can go back to a shitty apartment and three roommates. It won’t kill him. Except he really likes his new friends in the band and on the tour. And Adam. He likes Adam. It always comes back to Adam.

Just when he thinks Adam gave up, there’s another knock and Adam saying quietly, “Let me in, damn it.”

Tommy wants space, wants time. Why can’t Adam wait until morning, leave some leeway. Hell, Adam could have just taken some random guy home and had a good time. What’s he doing in Burbank at two a.m., knocking on the door of a guy who’s already made it clear he wants to be left alone tonight.

A key snicks and the door opens ominously. Tommy jerks upright and his phone clatters on the wood floor.

The door shuts – none too quietly – and there stands Adam with his back to it, staring across the dark room at Tommy.

It’s hard to tell Adam’s expression in the dim light. Adam seems to be waiting.

Tommy finds that the long hair is useful. It’s hanging in his face and he doesn’t bother to brush it away. He can see through the strands but his own expression, which probably borders on terror or at least intense embarrassment, should be hidden from Adam’s view.

“Tommy.” Adam’s voice is, like, an octave lower than normal. “You’ve never acted like that. I can’t let it go. Just talk to me. It’s me, Tommy. Me. You know it will be okay, whatever it is.”

“It’s nothing,” Tommy manages to mumble.

“Nothing?” Adam leaves the door and stalks towards Tommy. “That really hurt, you know? You never do that kind of thing, so I know it’s me, my fault, I made you angry somehow, I just don’t know how.”

He stops right in front of Tommy, not even giving the favor of leaving personal space. He puts a finger under Tommy’s chin and that’s so familiar that Tommy feels his eyes start to sting and oh no, that’s not okay. But Adam’s tilting his face up and using his other hand to draw aside the long white-blond hair, tucking it behind an ear carefully.

“Please, Tommy. Please.”

Tommy’s eyes drift closed. Is Adam going to kiss him? He feels like Adam’s going to kiss him. He wants Adam to kiss him. Sure, he was mad at Adam in the club but now that he has Adam all to himself, he starts wanting again, wanting what he can’t have and shouldn’t have. For example, a proper kiss. But Adam isn’t doing anything, just holding his chin up with one hand, stroking the back of his neck with the other. He feels the incredible warmth of Adam’s nearness.

“Tommy.”

“I, um, do you think I’m like them?” Tommy stumbles over the words, cannot open his eyes.

“Huh?”

Tommy twists his head, drops his shoulders, and worms his way out from behind Adam, crossing the room to get some distance.

“Like who, Tommy?”

The hair is still doing its job, having fallen from behind his ear. Tommy is so glad because he thinks his cheeks might be turning red and glowing in the dark.

“You said – you told that guy in England, Ross somebody, or –“

“What are you going on about?” Adam is closing the distance between them, damn it.

“Am I your type?”

Adam stops in front of him again. He puts out a hand and lifts the curtain of hair and peers into Tommy’s eyes. “Is that what this is about?”

Tommy feints again and slips away and goes over by the front door. The living room isn’t all that big.

“Stop walking away from me.” Adam is starting to sound a little pissed.

“Stop following me.” Tommy folds his arms across his scrawny chest.

“What do you mean, type?”

Tommy shrugs, looks to the side, inspects the coat rack his mom put there. Coat racks are so not rock-and-roll.

“Tommy?” Adam has that weird thing in his voice now, like Tommy’s a skittish colt he’s trying not to spook. “My type?”

“Am I a twink?” Tommy can’t believe he said that out loud. He bites his lip.

And there’s Adam all up in his situation again, reaching out and then stopping without touching. “God, no. Why would you think that?”

Tommy fidgets and shuffles his feet. “Is that why you picked me?”

“For what?”

“The band.”

“Of course not. You know you’re a great musician. You know that’s why you beat out everyone else.” Adam turns and walks away, hesitates near the kitchen pass-through.

Tommy takes the opportunity to scoot over by the sofa and the front window again. He peeks through his hair. The kitchen light illuminates half of Adam’s face. It’s unfair that Adam can look so beautiful. Tommy can count his own ribs with his fingers, he’s that skinny. He realizes he’s not very twink-y because he likes horror movies and is horrible at flirting. He would look awful in glitter shorts and fishnet tanktops. Not that he has anything against twinks. Except the ones that Adam takes to bed.

“It’s just –“ Tommy tosses his hair out of his eyes. Adam is watching him. “You were with me tonight.”

“Is that bad?”

“No. Um.”

“Is it too much? I’m taking advantage?”

“What, no.” Tommy shakes his head.

“On stage,” says Adam. “You want me to stop? Are you afraid that people think we’re together?”

Oh, if only, Tommy thinks bitterly. He starts picking at his nail polish. “Not that.”

“Tommy, I don’t want to make you unhappy. You believe me, right? Because if you didn’t believe me, I’m going to feel horrible.”

“Don’t care what people think,” Tommy mumbles.

“Louder, glitterbaby, can’t hear you.”

Tommy smiles ruefully. “Just, you came with me and to meet Jillian and all.”

“She’s great. Heath’s great. I love them.”

“And then you were, like, um, left me alone to go have a fuck.”

“Excuuuuuuse me?” Adam puts his hands on his hips and glares, and Tommy has to admit even beautiful Adam has some ridiculous looks and this is one of them.

“In the bathroom.”

“What bathroom?”

“At the _club_.”

“What about the bathroom at the club?”

Tommy was close to chewing his lip bloody. “I saw that dude following you.”

“WHAT? I was autographing paper towels in the bathroom for hours. I wasn’t having sex.”

Tommy looks down and back up.

Adam blows out a breath that almost stirs his bangs in spite of all the product holding his hair in place. “You thought I was screwing in the john? Tommy, I had to go into a stall just to piss so they wouldn’t take pictures.”

Oh. Hmmmm. Tommy isn’t good at thinking. “Then why did you flirt with that twink on the dance floor?”

“Did I?” Adam looks really mad now. “Excuse me for having fun while I’m dancing. As I recall I was dancing with _you_. It was cool up until you about twisted my nipple off.”

Tommy’s not proud of that moment. He jams his hands in his jeans pockets and pretends to find the tips of his sneakers to be fascinating. He can feel Adam’s gaze on him. “Sorry,” Tommy says softly.

“You should be, it’s still throbbing. Jesus.” Adam rubs abstractedly at his shirt. “I can’t believe you thought,” Adam says, mostly to himself, and then his hand stops its motion and he stares. “That’s hilarious,” he says. “You thought I was getting some and really I was just signing autographs.” He laughs.

“It’s not funny,” says Tommy, a little bit belligerently.

“It’s kind of funny,” says Adam. “Wait, are you _jealous_?”

“Um,” says Tommy, “no?”

“You’re straight.”

Tommy shrugs.

“You’re _not?_ ”

Tommy shrugs again. “Mostly straight.”

“Are you,” Adam says more carefully, “telling me that you’re jealous of guys I sleep with?”

Well, there it goes, the secret’s out. Tommy is almost relieved, to the point his leg muscles threaten to give up and drop him on the floor right where he stands.

“Tommy Joe Ratliff, what are you telling me?”

“Okay, I said I’m sorry, I was stupid, can you just leave now?” Tommy tosses his hair again and looks pointedly at the apartment’s front door. When he looks back, Adam is nearly chest-to-chest with him, looming.

“Are you jealous?” asks Adam softly.

“No, I just feel stupid!” Tommy says sharply, stepping back and nearly falling onto the sofa.

Adam cocks his head.

“I’m your type, right?” Tommy says, still bristling.

“Me and my big mouth, I should never have told anyone.”

“I’m like a, what, tiny and precious and shit,” Tommy says. “You know how hard it is being a dude who’s short and skinny? Know what’s it like – what it’s like that you think I’m one of those guys you.…” Running out of steam, he looks down at his feet again. It was hard getting those words out. He’s ashamed of himself, along with being turned on by Adam’s presence. Like he always is these days. He could kick his own ass, if he had one to kick.

“Oh, not that, no. You’re nothing like other boys. They may look like you but,” and here Adam runs a finger along Tommy’s cheek, “they’re not you. You, you’re incredible.”

Tommy feels overwhelmed. He doesn’t understand what Adam is saying. He shoves Adam’s hand aside and turns his head to look out the window. He can’t look at those sweet blue eyes. Even in the dim light, Adam’s eyes kill him.

“You never said anything. I honestly took you at your word and thought you were straight. How the fuck was I supposed to know you were available?”

Tommy lifts his shoulders and drops them.

“Wait. Are you saying that you _are_ available?”

Tommy scuffs the toe of his shoe on the floor.

Adam says wonderingly, “Are you saying I can _have_ you?”

There’s a tense, drawn-out moment. Tommy’s heart seems stuck somewhere in his throat. Or maybe that’s acid reflux. The thing is, things are moving way too fast. His brain is kind of on spin cycle and it won’t stop. Only a couple of hours ago Tommy was commiserating with himself and some pricey whisky in a Burbank club, freaked out about being attracted to Adam, jealous of boys no prettier than Tommy Joe, thank you, getting to have sex with Adam. And then he was being spooned by Adam on the dance floor and Adam was flirting outrageously with him and Adam pashed him right on the mouth in front of a club full of people, which, yeah, it had been way too long since the last time the band played a gig and Tommy had gotten _so_ used to those kisses, addicted, even. Just thinking back to it, his lips are tingling.

And now Adam’s sucking up all the oxygen in his tiny apartment with his height and his broad shoulders and his big personality. And asking him, for fuck’s sake, if he is fucking available? What does that even mean? Does it mean Adam wants it to be that way? Or is Adam going to get mad at him for crossing the line? Tommy can’t even process what is being said to him. He’s starting to shake so he wraps his arms around himself.

Not surprisingly, Adam hasn’t even noticed that Tommy isn’t answering, because Adam talks enough for any five other people. So he’s still blithering on about something. “Or do you mean you’re available to any guy?” Adam asks, staring at Tommy as though Tommy is a stupendously foolish person.

Tommy, horribly offended, shakes his head.

Tommy could be imagining things but Adam seems to relax at that. “Just me?” Adam asks softly.

Tommy peers out through his bangs.

“Oh my god,” says Adam. “All this time. Oh my god. Give me your keys.”

“Uh, what?”

“I have to go home right now.”

This is a turn of events that Tommy could never have anticipated. He’s embarrassed, ashamed, turned on, confused, guilty… and Adam’s wants to _go home_?

“Why?” he asks, hurt.

“I can’t stay here! You’ve, like, just smacked me over the head with the Eiffel Tower, I need to go home and indulge in a panic attack and eat ice cream.” Adam does sound like he’s maybe starting to hyperventilate. “Give me your car keys.”

“What if _I_ need to go somewhere?”

“Oh no, sweetheart, you’re not getting another chance to run before I pick you up in the morning.” Adam looks really tense, like he’s trying to not show he’s nervous.

“For what?” Tommy asks, knowing he’ll hate the answer.

“Brunch, House of Pies.”

Tommy looks horrified.

“No?” asks Adam. “Why not?”

“Do you mean a, um, a date?” Tommy manages to stutter out.

“Fuck yes,” says Adam fervently.

Tommy stumbles back and his knees hit the sofa. He lets himself fall, bouncing a little when he hits the cushion.

“Say yes,” says Adam.

“I’m not worth dinner and a movie?” Tommy blames this awful line on his growing nervousness.

Adam snorts. “Dinnertime? I can’t wait that long to see you again.”

Tommy inspects the coat rack again. “You don’t have to bribe me. There’s a bedroom in here somewhere.”

“Fuck, Tommy, you’re worth more than that.” Adam goes to his knees in front of Tommy. He reaches out and turns Tommy’s head back towards him. “I have to leave now.”

“Don’t want you to,” Tommy says stubbornly.

“You fickle little thing. If I stay,” Adam says ominously, “eventually I’m going to get my hands on that perky little ass. So give me your keys. _Now._ ”

“This is so fucked up,” says Tommy, and then Adam’s all over him, taking everything, hands grabbing and stroking and pushing and pulling and hauling him forward until he is smushed against Adam’s chest, his legs on either side of Adam’s thighs. Adam’s tongue is in his mouth. Adam’s familiar and comforting smell surrounds him. It’s overpowering, scary and so fucking hot.

“Fucking octopus,” Tommy mumbles. His hands are usually occupied with his bass guitar during Adam’s kisses, so they flounder a bit until they settle on Adam’s waist under his leather jacket.

Adam shifts and fastens his mouth to Tommy’s neck and sucks like a vampire.

Able to breathe again, Tommy complains, “You have a big tongue.”

Adam pulls back and looks at Tommy, really looks. “I have a big dick, too,” he says with a crooked grin. “I’m a toppy bastard, so you have to stop me.”

Tommy shakes his head no.

“I refuse to hook up with you, Tommy. I’m not out to get laid once. I’m going to court you and win you over and wine and dine you and all that shit.” He nuzzles Tommy’s cheek and whispers in his ear, “But I’m going to fuck you right through the floor in five minutes if you don’t stop me. Please stop me, I can’t do it myself.”

And whoa, Tommy’s ass is suddenly worried because there’s never been a dick in it before and it’s really unsure if that’s what it wants. Kissing is one thing, hand jobs aren’t bad, and Tommy can imagine how it would be if Adam would suck him off – the thought itself is almost enough to make him come without being touched. He can even handle the idea of a dick in his own mouth, so long as it’s Adam’s. But a dick in the ass? That’s another level of scary. Is it a requirement for gay life partners? Would Adam be content with blow jobs and heavy petting? Or would he insist on consummating their union with blissful intercourse involving a big dick in his ass? His ass is saying no thanks.

“Adam,” Tommy says softly, and Hurricane Adam immediately subsides, breathing heavily. Waiting. “Please leave.”

Adam’s arms slide away and he rises to his feet gracefully. In one hand he dangles Tommy’s keys. The bastard managed to sneak them out of Tommy’s jeans pocket. “Ten a.m. Try to look inconspicuous.”

Tommy rolls his eyes upwards to indicate his asymmetrical hair, half-shaved scalp and two-toned dye job.

Adam laughs, a bright, sweet sound, and then he’s out the door and thudding down the steps.

Tommy sits in the dark. He hears a car door open and close, an engine start up and fade away into the night. He’s too tired, emotionally and physically, to move. It’s easier to sit and stare at the wall, to close his eyes and try to remember how the kiss felt.

The line is still there, though, the one that keeps them apart. It felt like a real touch, where Adam touched him. It felt like trust. Tommy trusts that Adam means well, but Tommy’s not sure which way is up anymore, and if it weren’t way past midnight he’d call his mom or Jillian or Monte or someone. It’s too late, though, so he sits and considers jerking off or taking a shower or shuffling off to bed.

Tommy Joe Ratliff defies any human man, not excepting Morrissey, Derek Jeter, or the Pope, to resist the charm offensive of Adam Mitchel Lambert. Feeling he’s in lousy company, he sighs and digs deeper into the sofa.

* * *

When he wakes the sun is warming the floorboards, he’s fallen sideways on the sofa with one arm beneath him, and his phone chirps somewhere nearby. He fumbles for it, nearly falling off the sofa, and reads the text.

 _Morning sunshine!_

“Blrghgh,” Tommy grumbles. According to the phone, it’s way after nine a.m. already. There’s no time to panic or think. He levers himself upright and heads for the shower, shedding clothes on the way. Half an hour later he’s squeaky clean, blowing his hair dry. Forget the makeup. He puts on fresh jeans and a Cure tee and sneakers and his everyday jacket and then tucks his hair under a Dodgers baseball cap. He considers his badly chipped nail polish. Now _that’s_ rock and roll.

He shoves his phone and wallet in his pockets, feeling naked without the keys. Of course he can’t lock the apartment door because that key was on the same keyring. Not that there’s much to steal except a few really expensive guitars, so. Not good. Then he remembers the baggie of spares that his mom had made for him, finds it and grabs a key. On the landing, as he’s locking the door, Mrs. Porter is there, watering her potted geraniums. Her cat, Walter, curls around Tommy’s ankles. He leans down to pet Walter.

“Hi, Mrs. Porter,” he says. He loves these old people. He’s kind of glad they’re all going deaf because that means maybe Adam didn’t wake them up last night.

“Good morning, Tommy,” she says. “Are you going somewhere?”

He clears his throat. “Breakfast. Lunch. Not sure.”

“You’re always going somewhere, aren’t you, young man?”

“I might stop by the store on the way back, you need anything?”

She hesitates a moment too long to think because, whoa, there’s the sound of Adam’s Mustang and he doesn’t want Adam coming upstairs to get him. “Gotta go,” he says, “if you think of something ring my cell.”

Mrs. Porter and Walter both give him a confused look. On an impulse Tommy does something he never does – busses her cheek, grins, and then turns and runs down the stairs.

Having to move fast is a good, good thing, because it prevents him from thinking too much. Takes his mind off the spin cycle. He feels more like himself this morning, especially now that he’s washed off the half-drunk desperation from last night.

Sure enough, Adam’s out of his car but Tommy aims for the passenger door, not breaking stride, pointing at the car. “I’m here, get back in,” he says to forestall getting hugged on the sidewalk outside his apartment building, or worse yet – depending on whether or not Adam’s developed any restraint since last night – kissed. His tone is so bossy that Adam, wide-eyed, complies without a word. Inside the car he pretends to fuss with his seat belt so Adam won’t get any ideas about a welcome kiss in the car since he didn’t get one outside the car. Tommy’s not exactly sure where their friendship or what _ever_ stands this morning but he’s feeling feisty.

“I’m eating an actual pie for breakfast if I feel like it, and I don’t want to get any shit about it,” he announces, unable to keep a small smirk off his face.

Adam stares at him like he’s grown a second head. Then he laughs, and Tommy will never not love that sound. “You’re the boss,” Adam concedes as he revs the engine and pulls away from the curb.

Tommy slouches and avoids Adam’s hot gaze. _The boss?_ As if.


	2. Chapter 2

BROKEN OPEN – Part 2

The House of Pies basks in the warm Sunday morning sun on its corner of Franklin and North Vermont, content with its setting amid acres of pavement and clouds of car exhaust. The décor is downhome-cheesy and the House of Pies sign outside is just the best. Ever.

They sit in an open V-shaped booth with comfortably cracked vinyl. Tommy’s not positive but he thinks he can smell Tarantino wannabes in the air. Their waitress, Jan, is about a billion years old and un-ironically calls them both _honey_.

Tommy orders pancakes, toast, bacon, Western omelet, orange juice, coffee, hash browns, and a Belgian waffle. Adam keeps trying to put some of his healthy breakfast choices onto one of Tommy’s many plates, but Tommy isn’t up for that shit.

“Keep your fruit to yourself, freak,” he says through a mouthful of waffle.

“Even skinny people can have high cholesterol.”

“Please,” Tommy retorts, although it’s garbled because he is slurping coffee at the same moment.

Adam smiles at him fondly. “Your table manners leave something to be desired.”

“I know – can’t take me anywhere,” Tommy says agreeably.

“Been here before?”

Tommy nods his head because his mouth is still full. Who _hasn’t_ been to the House of Pies?

“They say Tarantino wrote _Reservoir Dogs_ here. I met him on Idol.”

Tommy spears a piece of omelet with his fork. “Imagine if you’d never done that audition thing. We would never of met.”

Adam’s blue eyes are warm and his smile is so, so sweet. “Way to bring up a potential tragedy.”

“All’s well that ends well, right?” Tommy sneaks a look around the restaurant. “Oh, hey, is that that actress from that show?”

Adam refuses to take the bait. “There’s no one there, child. Don’t try to deflect. What do you want to do after we’re, that is, you’re done eating?”

Tommy considers, chewing. “There’s a game on at one.”

“A game of what?”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “Don’t pretend you don’t know that real men watch football on TV.”

Adam lets out a surprised laugh. “You think you can make me watch a football game?”

Tommy shrugs. “What kind of date is this anyway, you’re supposed to do things I like.”

“There are limits, sweetheart.”

“No, there aren’t. When I take a chick on a date, I usually wind up seeing a rom-com, and do you think that’s fun?”

“I love rom-coms,” Adam protests.

“You would,” Tommy says darkly. “You didn’t have to see Alec Baldwin naked.” Fact is, he’s getting spooked again. Mostly it’s just them sitting here and shooting the shit like any other day. But there’s that weird thing vibrating through his skin because he knows fucking well it’s not an ordinary day. He still doesn’t know what the fuck Adam wants from him. Tommy’s sure as fuck not going to turn into a girl for anyone. Adam can just watch a fucking football game and like it. Plus which, that will put off the inevitable moment when Adam’s fucking hands start wandering. “I usually watch the game at The Office on West Victory.”

Adam’s mouth drops open. “ _A sports bar?!_ Are you insane, Tommy Joe?”

Tommy picks up a crispy strip of bacon and points it in Adam’s direction. “I’m a guy, I like watching the game at a bar.”

“I thought you hated sports in high school.”

“I don’t want to _play_ sports, but sometimes it’s cool to watch a game.”

Adam stares at Tommy with new respect, or maybe it’s horror. “Wow, you really are a guy.”

Tommy grins. “Toldya.” It feels great getting one up on Adam.

Adam reaches over and pulls the Dodgers cap off and Tommy’s hair tumbles out. “A pretty guy.”

“Now I got syrup in my hair, thanks,” Tommy says, flipping the hair off his fork and out of his eyes.

Jan shows up with a coffeepot. “Time for a warmup? Honey, that’s some hairdo.” She tops off Tommy’s mug. “More tea?” she asks Adam.

“Yes please, thanks, Jan,” says Adam.

After she’s gone, Tommy says, “I don’t think she knows who you are.”

“Thank god someone doesn’t.”

“Give her a big tip. I don’t want her to think I’d go out with a cheapskate.”

Tommy kind of wishes the cap was still in place because it provided some cover for the fact that he is out in public with a bare-naked face, but Adam’s got it out of reach. Tommy had washed off every bit of makeup this morning, whereas Adam looks more or less perfect as always. Too bad because Tommy really likes the freckles.

And it’s not just his face that’s naked. He’s trying hard to hide his emotions behind snarky comments. It seems like Adam is keeping it light, too. Still, Tommy doesn’t know where this is going and every time he stops to think, his stomach clenches. He tries to focus on the headlines of the _L.A. Times_ that Adam snagged from the coin-op rack on the way in.

“Your horoscope says that something exciting is on the horizon,” Adam says.

Tommy rolls his eyes again. Adam and his astrology shit. He’s being extra ridiculous this morning. And great, they’re sitting here in a well-worn family restaurant in Los Feliz, eating brunch and reading the paper like an old married couple. Married without benefits.

Jan comes back with more hot water for the tea. “That’s a nice eye shadow color, honey,” she tells Adam.

“Thank you,” Adam says sincerely. “I love your necklace, it’s beautiful.”

“This old thing?” But she smiles. “My husband gave it to me for our fortieth. You boys need anything else, just holler,” Jan says before she moves off.

“Definitely a big tip,” Adam agrees.

Tommy polishes off his orange juice and belches.

“Pretty _and_ feminine,” says Adam.

“You know me so well.”

“I think I need to know you better,” Adam says in a low tone that goes right to Tommy’s groin. “Oh wait,” he continues, immediately lightening up and gawd, what is it about Adam that he can shift from one thing to another so fast. “How’s this? I’m an Aquarius and a romantic at heart. I love long walks on the beach, cuddling on the couch after a good movie, and gyrating like a sex fiend on stage. I like gorgeous little guys who are quiet and sweet but secretly are incredible musicians. What really turns me on is serious talent.” Adam looks expectantly at Tommy, like he thinks he’s being clever, the bastard.

Tommy blanks for a moment. Adam can talk the leg off a chair and sometimes he makes Tommy feel slow. “I like mooning paparazzi,” Tommy begins. He drums his fingers on the table. “I like watching the Super Bowl while getting smashed at a sports bar. I love M.A.C. Love Alert Dazzleglass and Dunlop picks.”

Adam watches him expectantly. Fuck him if he thinks Tommy’s going to boost his ego by describing his perfect man. He doesn’t have a perfect man. He just has Adam and that’s it.

“I like my car,” he adds. “And I’d like to get it back soon.”

Adam grins. “Let’s go to my house,” he says excitedly.

“Gimme my hat.”

Adam tosses it over, lays two twenties on the table, and goes to the cash register to pay. When they walk to the door, Tommy in the lead, Tommy stops suddenly and Adam nearly crashes into his back.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“Shouldn’t you be getting doors for me?” Tommy snickers.

“You act so innocent, baby, but I know better.” Nonetheless, Adam reaches over Tommy’s head to push open the door.

* * *

“That’s a lot of purple,” says Tommy. He’s not complaining, but. Purple. He takes off the cap – which is really annoying, he hates hats – and drops it on a table near the front door.

The walls of Adam’s brand-new house are painted in various hues of purple.

“It’s called tone-on-tone,” Adam says proudly.

The furniture is all plush dark-red velvet.

“Bordello red?” Tommy asks.

“You love it,” counters Adam.

This house is diametrically opposite Tommy’s cozy 1940s apartment building. It’s in-your-face modern with floors of polished concrete and walls of windows everywhere, and the open kitchen is blindingly white with lime accents. The gigantic shag rug in the living room is all kinds of grey and black and looks like granite made out of wool.

“The curtains don’t match the carpet,” Tommy comments dryly with a sidelong glance at Adam.

Adam bursts out laughing. He bounces over to Tommy and grabs his hand. “Come on and see the outdoors, it’s beautiful!”

Adam’s not wrong, it’s pretty incredible. The property slopes downward gently, allowing tall eucalyptus trees and dense shrubs of bougainvillea and oleander to frame a view of Los Angeles that stretches to the ocean. Everything is well-trimmed but lush, and it feels very private.

Adam’s phone rings and he answers it, giving Tommy the just-one-minute signal. “Don’t go!” he stage-whispers, then walks toward the pool.

Tommy contents himself with the view. The sun is bright and warm on this January day, and he wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. Snow was fun in some of the cities and countries they played, but mostly Tommy needs to be warm.

He can hear Adam’s voice across the grass and it sounds like Monte might be on the other end. He sits cross-legged on the grass and buries his hands in the deep greenness. It’s so green he kind of worries there might be a sprinkler nearby but who would set it to go off in the middle of the day? Adam’s house is pretty posh, not that Tommy’s envious. There’s a breeze and he feels chilled and hugs his arms to his chest. He hears Adam ring off and a moment later Adam is sitting behind him, long legs bracketing his own, strong arms pulling him gently back against Adam’s chest and holding him loosely.

“Nice, right?” Adam asks.

Tommy’s caught between the warm sun and a warm Adam and the deliciousness of it is impossible to describe. Whatever is going on between them, Adam’s arms fit around him perfectly and he’s gotten used to it and he likes it and doesn’t want to ever give it up. Or analyze it too deeply. He trusts that Adam will never hurt him, not on purpose. Adam won’t force him to do anything and won’t hate him if he changes his mind. Adam is so free and open and honest and tolerant that it’s like he gives permission to everyone around him to stop hating themselves for past failures, to not be ashamed of the time their mom caught them masturbating in the bathroom, or when their biggest crush turned them down, or when they cried in front of the whole school.

The truth is, Tommy’s afraid that _he_ is going to hurt Adam. But he can’t think about that now. He stretches out his legs and turns his cheek to rest against Adam’s chest, making sure it’s the side so he can hide behind his hair, because, yeah. Still needs to hide. His eyes flutter closed as his hands cover Adam’s across his stomach.

“Guess what Monte did?” Adam asks.

Tommy makes a sleepy sound.

“He got us a surprise gig tomorrow night at the Troubadour. He’s got friends playing and we’re just going to pop on the stage at ten or so and jam a few songs, then disappear into the night.”

“Good,” says Tommy, not opening his eyes. “I miss playing. Which band is it?”

“Headache Blackout.”

“Oh yeah, I know them. Cool. But hey, if we play you know what’ll happen, someone will twat and then look out.”

“There’s a secret back exit at the Troub. We’ll be okay.” Adam squeezes him gently and Tommy very nearly purrs. “Tommy Joe,” Adam says, “I really, really want to kiss you right now.”

It feels like a lightening bolt goes through Tommy, flushing his body with heat. Tommy really, really wants to be kissed right now, too. Like, _really wants._ It’s probably a bad idea to let Adam know that. Since when does Adam ask for permission anyway? Tommy manages to stammer out, “You kiss me all the time.”

“I haven’t kissed you in weeks!”

“You kissed me last night, fucker.” Tommy mumbles something further about _guess I’m not a memorable kisser._

“You’re right. Damn, I was really misbehaving. Oh well, fuck. You know me.”

Tommy smiles behind his hair. Silly Adam. He feels Adam’s hand pushing the hair back and then stroking his cheek. Giving in would be so nice and he just wants to tilt his chin up so that he can bask in Adam’s bright smile. But that would only encourage Adam, who in general is The Boy Who Needs No Encouragement.

And fuck it, this is a first date, and Tommy Joe Ratliff doesn’t put out on the first date. He knows the moment that Adam’s hand shifts to turn his face up and he forestalls it fast. “Hey, save it for the show, loverboy.”

“Don’t wanna,” Adam complains.

“Bitch,” Tommy says. “Just deal.”

Adam huffs and drops his hand back to Tommy’s waist. Tommy covers his hand again and squeezes to let Adam know it’s okay.

Adam sighs like someone just told him he has to hold up the world from now on. “Tommy, I realize that girltalk makes your skin crawl but I’m going to have to do a bit of it.”

Tommy squeezes Adam’s hand again.

“And I have to ask you some questions.”

Tommy squirms in Adam’s embrace a little.

“I don’t go after straight boys, you know that.”

“Been there, fucked that?” Tommy asks, snickering.

Adam play-bites the back of Tommy’s neck, which tickles. “Yeah, it really sucks when it turns out they’re just bi-curious.”

“So how come gay guys fall for straight boys?”

Adam jostles Tommy. “You know why.”

Yeah, Tommy does know why. You don’t hang with the high school fags and dykes without learning about that one. How many people are gay… five percent? So if you’re a gay boy, only five percent of the other boys and none of the girls are potentially available. Whereas straight people can figure on ninety-five percent of the opposite sex. Hell, Tommy’s had crushes on lesbians before (and sometimes after) he knew they were lesbians.

“I’ve been burned four times,” Adam says, and wow, that sucks. “Two of them were my fault. Imagine when I found out I couldn’t convert them.” He laughs but it doesn’t sound like a fun laugh. “Not that it matters now, those didn’t last long. I’ve only been in love once. But no one wants their heart broken again.”

Tommy pushes Adam’s hands away and twists around until he can put his arms around Adam’s back and hug him, face smushed against Adam’s shirt. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice muffled.

Adam's arms fold around Tommy again. “Have you ever been in love, Tommy?”

Tommy nods against the shirt.

“Bad?”

Tommy shakes his head. “Not yet.” He kind of gave something away there but Adam seems to have missed it, maybe because he seems uncertain. Talk about awkward.

“So have you ever,” Adam begins.

“High school,” mumbles Tommy.

“Yeah?”

“One guy, coupla months.”

“That’s it?”

“Figured out I was straight.”

Adam sighs. “So you are straight.”

“Cut me some slack, I was seventeen, I coulda been wrong.”

“Was that the last time?”

“Um.”

“Um?”

“Till now.” If Adam can’t figure _that_ out he‘s an idiot.

Adam doesn’t say anything, just strokes Tommy’s back. He can almost hear the wheels turning in Adam’s brain and it won’t be long before this embarrassing conversation starts up again, so Tommy eels out of the warm embrace and crawls away on the grass because he's had way more than enough of talking about chick feelings for now, thank you. Adam’s quick, though - turns around and reaches out with a gorilla-long arm and snares Tommy’s Chuck Taylor, nearly pulling it off his foot.

“Hey! First you take my car and then my shoes!” he laughs, and then Adam’s got him pinned to the ground on his back, staring into his eyes all romantic and shit.

“You’re so, _so_ gorgeous, baby,” Adam breathes, leaning down.

Tommy doesn’t think, just claps a hand over Adam’s mouth in the nick of time. “Got any ice cream left?” he asks.

Adam glares and pulls the hand away. “Prick tease,” he says.

“First date.”

“Is that how it’s going to be? After all those kisses?”

“So you’re saying the tour was foreplay?”

“Oh, honey, when I do foreplay you won’t have to ask, you’ll know.”

Smug bastard. Tommy plants a foot on Adam’s midsection and shoves hard. Adam _oomphs_ and rolls back on the grass. Tommy scrambles to his feet and runs for the house. He makes it before Adam in spite of his shorter legs. He whips open the Sub-Zero freezer, finds two small, half-empty Ben  & Jerry’s cartons, and slams them on the kitchen island.

“I call the Coffee Heath Bar Crunch!” Tommy yells, because he knows that Adam’s favorite is Mint Chocolate.

“At least eat it with a spoon.” Adam finds two spoons and they sit on kitchen stools and eat in companionable silence for a few minutes.

“What songs should we play?” Adam asks.

“I wanna do a Clash song.”

“Huh. I’m not sure those are sing-able, by someone with an actual voice anyway.”

“Fuck off, Joe Strummer was the shit. _Brand New Cadillac_ , you can do that. Plus it has an awesome bass line.”

Adam shrugs. “That might work. If Monte knows it, I’ll sing it.”

Tommy nods, licking his spoon. "I like the house. It's big."

"Big and lonely. House-warming party Saturday, everyone I've ever known is invited."

"Seriously?"

"No, just the band and my friends and anyone you want to invite."

"Can I invite Headache Blackout?"

"Sure."

"Simon Cowell?"

"Fuck no."

When the ice cream is all gone – and only after Adam insists on making him try the Mint Chocolate and honest-to-god feeds it to him – Adam grabs Tommy’s keys where they’ve been lying on the counter and hands them over. “You’re going to keep me honest?” he asks, walking Tommy to the front door.

Tommy nods, feeling his cheeks heat again.

“Suppose we play _Fever_.”

“Then you can kiss me.”

“Yeah?”

“If you can catch me.”

Adam sweeps the door open. “I like a challenge.”

Tommy hugs him quickly because it’s a long time till tomorrow night, then runs to his car, parked sweetly next to Adam’s in the driveway, and yeah, old married couple.

* * *

On the way home he picks up a coffee-cake and a quart of milk and a can of Ghirardelli hot cocoa mix with a thought of sharing it with Mrs. Porter and Walter later on.

Of course he notices the freshly cut new key on his key ring but he tries to ignore it because he's elated and scared and it makes him want to text Adam immediately and he knows fucking well he shouldn't.


	3. Chapter 3

On the way home, Tommy exchanges texts with Monte (while at stop lights, thank you). Monte’s in the soundproofed garage already, so Tommy detours to his house. Jamming with Monte is one of Tommy’s favorite things in the whole wide world, plus he’s starting to get excited about this mini-gig. When he gets to Casa Pittman, he parks in the driveway and goes straight into the garage and Monte’s there, wailing away.

Monte’s garage is the coolest thing ever. It’s packed with amazing amounts of audio equipment – amps, speakers, compressors, pedals, a retro Moog and a small mixing station along with several of Monte’s guitars, a ratty sofa, mismatched chairs, woodworking equipment plus a washer and dryer. Tommy even keeps a Fender Squier there just for times like this. Tommy gets two beers from the rickety old fridge, popping both on the opener that’s bolted to a sturdy wooden table.

“Cadillac?”

Monte nods, taking a beer from Tommy.

“We gotta change it up,” Tommy says, opening the Squier case. “Ramones style?”

“Green Day,” offers Monte.

“Alley Cats.” Tommy sits on his favorite chair and plugs in the bass.

“Maybe just go with early Clash, give-em-enough-rope style.”

“Breeders.”

“Pixies.”

“Lou Reed!”

Tommy laughs. “If you’re going so far off the planet as Velvet Lou, why not Adam Ant?”

“Hey, that gives me an idea. We shouldn’t play anything obvious. Nothing from the album.”

“Radical,” Tommy nods, holding out his beer bottle. Monte leans over and they clink bottles.

“Do you ever miss the days when you were nobody and playing in a dark corner of a club?” Monte asks.

“Where people were more interested in drinking than paying attention? Yep, I miss those days.”

“Every gig was a possibility.”

“For being pelted with beer, sure.”

“ _Stand and Deliver._ ”

“They delivered, all right.”

Monte chuckles. “I meant the song.”

“Knew whatcha meant,” Tommy says, grinning wide. He neighs kinda-sorta like a horse and goes right into the bass line. Monte pitches in on lead. Neither one is good at singing but that doesn’t stop them from hollering, “Stand and delivaaaahhhh! Your money or your life!”

Over the next hour they work out the arrangements for _Brand New Cadillac_ and _Stand and Deliver_.

“We need two more,” Monte decides.

Tommy chews his lip. “How ‘bout something from Citizen Vein days?”

“Good idea. Adam won’t have to memorize too much stuff that way. Okay, one more. Something totally unexpected.”

“Who are we trying to startle – Adam or the audience?”

“Bit of both. Any ideas?”

“Ever heard of Catfight?” Tommy asks.

“Nope, sounds interesting, enlighten me,” Monte says.

Tommy pulls out his iPod and scrolls through. “Girl band from Atlanta. Play this one.”

Monte pops it in the Boze sound dock and turns it up. They listen for awhile, Monte nodding and smiling at Tommy. When it gets to the chorus Monte cracks up and Tommy looks like the cat that ate the cream.

“Syphilis? Seriously?”

“Keep listening,” Tommy says.

Monte listens and laughs through the rest of the song, and when it’s done he’s wiping tears from his eyes. “That’s awesome. I can’t imagine Adam doing it, though.”

“How come?”

“Adam’s serious about songs, he really doesn’t do jokey things.”

Tommy raises both eyebrows.

“Okay, he does do jokey things but not jokey _songs_.”

Tommy nods toward the iPod. “Play the next one. Cool riff but easy to play.”

They listen to _Back Off My Baby_ , Monte nodding along. When it’s over he says, “Great song. We’ve got our set list.”

“Sweet. You think Adam wants a say?”

“I’m musical director,” Monte replies, switching from the PRS to the Les Paul and testing out the opening riff. “He’ll like the lyrics of this one.”

The garage door opens and Lisa comes in. “Hi, Tommy! I saw your car. You want to stay for dinner?”

Tommy smiles. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Adam’s coming, too.”

Oh.

“That okay?”

“Sure,” Tommy lies, thinking _Christ on a cracker, is he stalking me?_

“Great, I’ll set two extra places. Be ready in an hour and a half.” She and Monte share a brief peck on the lips and then she’s gone.

“Too much Adam?” asks Monte. “You had breakfast together, he said.”

“We did, yeah.”

“There’s such a thing as too much Adam,” Monte chortles, finger-picking the opening chords of _Turning On_.

“Yeah,” says Tommy. _No, there isn’t._ Tommy can’t imagine that he could ever get tired of Adam, but too much Adam or not, Tommy feels like he needs a bit more space right now. Then again maybe it’s good to be around Adam with other people present. A buffer zone. Monte and Lisa and the children will make a good buffer zone. Adam will have to behave: it’s not like Adam can go tonsil-diving if there are kids around.

Still, he’s tense now, and no amount of the joy of playing with Monte can totally take that away.

Apparently Monte notices because after awhile he stops playing and asks, “What’s up, man?”

Tommy shakes his head.

“Come on, bros for life here,” Monte says. “You can tell Uncle Monte.”

Tommy chews on a black-painted fingernail, hunkering over his bass and watching an ant cross the cement floor. “You and Adam, you’ve known each other a long time.”

“We have.”

“Is he different now?” Tommy fidgets. “After American Idol, is what I mean.”

“After getting famous?”

Tommy nods. He thinks he can taste fingernail polish, which is probably toxic, so he forces himself to put his fingers back on the neck of the guitar. He’s not ready to die of blood poisoning over love, unrequited or not.

“Not much,” Monte says. “What happens to us in life changes us, so of course, there’s some changes. We’re all different after Glam Nation, don’t you think?”

“Richer,” Tommy says wryly and they share a laugh at that.

“Tell me what’s on your mind, bro.”

“Nothing. Just, me and Adam’ve only known each other a year.”

“A bit more.”

“Yeah.”

“Adam doesn’t leave people behind, if that’s your worry.”

Okay, so that’s part of Tommy’s worry, but far from all of it. It’s dangerous talking to Monte like this but Tommy doesn’t know who else to ask and he’s burning with questions. He wants to know everything about Adam. He resents the years that he and Adam were both in Los Angeles but he didn’t know Adam. He wants that time together when they were really young. He wants to know Adam when he was a goofy kid striving for something more, not famous yet but somehow still unbelievably hot, when he was becoming himself, a scared, brave teenager who moved away from home to try to be an artist and in the process learned how to be himself. Tommy knows that feeling, after high school, wanting the future but not knowing how to make it happen. Fuck, if wishes were Porsches then beggars would drive. They’re almost thirty now, both of them, more or less over the hill. He’s had a few girlfriends and he knows Adam’s had boyfriends and he desperately wants to know how many guys have been so lucky as to wake up with Adam. He hates them all, even not knowing who they were or are. He wants every part of Adam, the parts he maybe already has and the parts that everyone else has; he’s selfish that way, when it comes to Adam.

And now Monte’s looking at him kindly and it’s really hard to take. He’s grateful for Monte’s friendship; he looks up to Monte because he’s a husband and a dad and he owns a house and a family van and he seems so mature and responsible. Tommy hates feeling like a kid around a man who’s actually only six years older.

“Does Adam stay friends after he breaks up?” Tommy says. He hears Monte shift around.

“Is there something you want to tell me, Tommy?”

“Nuh-uh.” Damn it, that finger’s back and he’s gnawing at the nail.

“There’s a lot of men,” Monte says, and it sounds like he’s treading carefully. “You know, _straight_ men,” he adds uncomfortably. “They get real interested in Adam and they start thinking he can do something special for them.”

Tommy flushes from head to foot. He can’t look at Monte, he can’t believe he started this with his stupid question. At the same time he feels for those straight men, because duh. He badly wants to tell everything to Monte because he trusts him and because he needs to tell someone. But he can’t, he just can’t, because men don’t talk feelings.

Monte’s hand lands lightly on his shoulder and Tommy twitches. “Adam seems confident and tough, but he can get hurt. And I don’t ever want to see him hurting again.”

“I would never,” Tommy stammers out.

“Of course not. Just think hard about whatever it is that’s between you,” Monte continues sympathetically. “I don’t know what it is, all I know is Adam thinks the world of you.” He pauses, rubs Tommy’s shoulder a little. “Some lucky guy is going to get to keep Adam one of these days. That guy better deserve Adam.” He gives a final squeeze to Tommy’s shoulder and lets go. “Anytime you need, me and Lisa are here to talk. Anytime.”

“Okay,” Tommy says softly, drawing in a shaky breath. It occurs to him that it’s hard on Monte to do this talking thing. Monte’s a guy, too. A wave of affection for this decent man calms his nerves fractionally.

“We good?” asks Monte.

“Yeah.”

“Let’s work on the bridge for the Catfight thing, okay?”

So they run through _Back Off My Baby_ twice more and then they run through a couple of other songs for variety – things that he and Monte will play in small venues in the coming months – until Tommy’s less shaky. Monte’s been writing new songs and he’s at the point where he totally trusts Tommy to work out a groovy bass line. They record some of what they are coming up with. Before he knows it, Monte is looking at the clock on the wall and powering down the equipment.

The sun has nearly set by the time they leave the garage. Monte padlocks the door and they head into the house through the backyard, going straight into the kitchen, where Adam is waiting with a shining smile just for Tommy.

“Lisa said you were here,” Adam says happily, and fuck, now Monte knows and he’s going to be watching like a – fuck – like a _dad_. As if Tommy hasn’t suffered enough humiliation already in the last couple of days.

“Taco night!” Lisa says. “Adam already set the table so you can help me carry in the food.”

Over dinner they go over the set list and the worst thing Adam has to say is, “You can’t force me to sing _Stand and Deliver_ ,” but he’s totally kidding, it’s clear he loves the idea. He also loves the Catfight song, after dinner when they’re sitting in the family room and Monte plays it on the stereo. “You’ve been holding out on me, sweetie,” he says. “You never told me about that band.”

Tommy shrugs. “There’s, like, too many bands. It takes time to tell you all of the ones I like.”

The girls play with Tommy’s bangs, sitting on his lap and pulling the long hair down in front of his face. Lisa calls him Cousin It and then she has to explain the reference. When the girls tire of playing he gets to sit in the rocking chair and hold one of the twins. He looks across the room and there’s Adam on the leather couch, holding the other one, cooing and baby-talking, with the biggest smile ever on his face.

It’s revoltingly domestic. And also awesome.

The grownups shoot the shit some more, but the moment the girls turn on the Wiggles DVD, Tommy knows it’s time to go.

“Both of you, tomorrow around three, I’ll get Cam and Isaac in here and we’ll do a run-through,” says Monte, showing them out the kitchen door. Adam hugs Monte and waves at Lisa and the kids in the background.

Adam’s car is parked behind Tommy’s in the drive. The overgrown bougainvillea fashions a spot of deep shadow near the driver’s side and Tommy stops there, his hands in his jeans pockets. His jacket is in the back seat, because days are warm, but right now the night is cold and he shivers a little.

Adam crowds him up against the car. Even in the shadow, his teeth gleam whitely. Supernova. Huh.

“So, Tommy Joe, was that a second date?” Adam asks quietly.

“Don’t think so,” Tommy says, matching the quiet tone. The neighborhood is pretty still on a Sunday night. He can vaguely hear the Wiggles singing. That line that he and Adam never cross seems perilously fragile. One of these days Adam is going to step right the fuck over it and then Tommy will be lost for sure.

“Home-cooked meal,” says Adam, eyebrows up, eyes wide open. “Totally romantic, right?”

“I think you’re supposed to do it at your house and also do the cooking yourself. I don’t think this counts.”

“Mmm,” Adam hums, “I’m going to kiss you anyway.”

“Monte’s on the other side of that wall.”

“It’s okay, Monte knows I’m gay.”

Tommy has to giggle-snort at that, he can’t stop himself.

Adam snickers, too, and leans down and kisses him sweetly, just a press of lips slightly parted. “Baby, the curve of your lips, oh.”

Tommy actually tries to look down and see his own lips, like he’s surprised anyone would think his lips are curvy.

Adam rubs his hand back and forth against the short hair on the left side of Tommy’s head. “I love it this length, it feels so soft. Like shorn velvet.”

Tommy internally vows to always keep his hair exactly like this.

“We could make out in the back seat of the Mustang,” Adam says, and whoa.

“Huh?”

“I promise to respect your virtue,” Adam says, holding up two fingers. “Just necking, nothing else.” Unfortunately he’s got the boy-scout salute wrong, but it’s the thought.

“Eventually they’re gonna notice our cars are still in their driveway,” Tommy whispers, wondering if he just committed to a make-out session, maybe not here, but somewhere.

“We could go parking at the Griffith overlook.”

“Adam,” Tommy says, exasperated, “I don’t put out on the first _or_ second date.” Damn, that was unexpectedly prickly.

Adam takes a step back. “Okay, Tommy.” He pulls out his car keys and jiggles them lightly and won’t look at Tommy. “I’m sorry,” he adds thoughtfully, walking to his car.

And oh no. Not what Tommy meant at all. The one thing he can’t do is _lose_ Adam, and Monte’s right, he can’t tease Adam, either, it’s not fair. Adam doesn’t know that Tommy craves time to figure it out, and he can’t let Adam misinterpret because this – this is Tommy’s one chance and he knows he has to get it right.

“Adam, wait,” he says, and Adam turns back to him, his eyes sadder than before, so Tommy runs over and throws his arms around Adam’s neck and stands on tiptoe and smashes their mouths together. It’s not smooth or romantic, but points for enthusiasm.

Adam absorbs the impact of Tommy’s body and encompasses him in strong arms, kissing him back for a few moments. There are no tongues, surprisingly. Then Adam disengages and leans back, his arms still around Tommy’s waist. “Are you sure about this? I’ll never be upset, no matter what happens.”

Tommy realizes that’s probably a lie. Who wants rejection? He draws Adam’s head lower with one hand. He presses a kiss against Adam’s ear and whispers, “I put out on the third date, so plan something good.” With that Tommy slips out of Adam’s arms and slinks into his own car. He yanks on the seatbelt, hoping Adam isn’t going to come after him, and waits until the Mustang’s headlights flicker into existence and back away.

One thing’s for sure: Tommy is going to break wide open, he knows that now. He’s never been so scared in all his life, or so exhilarated.


	4. Chapter 4

Tommy is twitchy for hours. He tries to calm himself by playing old favorites on the steel-stringed guitar, then by going down to the apartment’s garden courtyard and sitting with the Plapps, who always have lots of stories to tell of their distant youth, all of them interesting if not actually phantasmagorically unlikely, so that kills an hour and makes them happy.

Back in his apartment, he organizes his horror DVDs according to amount of blood spilled and reads a couple of chapters from _Drood_ , which he’s in the middle of. He turns on his laptop and reads emails from his mom and sis, visits cuteoverload.com, and considers hunting down gay porn. A few pictures of gigantic dicks are more than enough to make him slam the laptop shut.

He goes into the bedroom and flops on top of the covers and lies there for a long while, utterly failing to fall asleep. He gets up and prowls around the apartment, thinking about going somewhere for some greasy food. The crap on TV is beyond uninteresting, but he stares at it for way too long.

When his cell phone emits a text beep, he nearly falls off the couch. It’s well past midnight and Adam is texting him, what the fuck.

 _Dinner tomorrow night? After practice before gig?_

 _got plans already_ Tommy texts back immediately, and then realizes that makes it look like he’s been waiting up to hear from Adam. Tommy curses at himself.

The phone beeps again. _Tuesday?_

 _busy_

 _Wednesday?_

 _busy_

 _Thursday?_

 _busy_

 _Friday?_

 _busy_ Tommy sighs. Nothing is ever easy with Adam.

 _Saturday?_

 _dont you have a party?_

 _Oh right._

Tommy fidgets at his phone keyboard. Another beep sounds.

 _No matter. On your sched. Night, kitten._

Tommy smiles a little. _sweet dreams babyboy_

The texts end and Tommy feels empty. His mind is still stuck in the spin cycle.

* * *

The band meets up at three in the afternoon in Monte’s garage.

“Who wants to do the horse sound?” asks Monte.

“I sampled a whinny already,” says Cam. “Also a French horn tally-ho.” She plays both samples, one after the other.

“Rockin’, darling,” says Monte.

“Why can’t I be the horse?” complains Adam, sauntering over to Tommy and putting an arm around his shoulders.

Tommy hangs onto his bass guitar for dear life. If nothing else, it’s a great excuse for hiding behind, a prop that can be clutched like a security blanket at need.

“Save it for the barnyard,” Cam snorts. She hits the programmed _whinny_ button several times in a row until they’re all sick of hearing it.

Isaac starts up the drumbeat on Monte’s old drum kit and they fumble into the song, Adam belting out lyrics he reads from a photocopied sheet of paper. They make it through the song, mostly, and crash to an inglorious halt.

“That was for shit,” Monte says. “Let’s do it three times in a row, fast.”

They improve radically over the next three tries, getting back into their band groove. Adam is still reading from the piece of paper.

“I may need a teleprompter,” he says.

“You’re not quite the president,” Cam informs him.

“Yet,” says Adam.

“Write it on your hand,” suggests Monte.

Adam inspects his left palm. “My hand isn’t _that_ big.”

“Write small.”

Adam takes Tommy’s shoulders in his hands and turns him around. “Maybe I can write it out on the back of Tommy’s shirt.”

Tommy glances over his shoulder. “I don’t think so. You have to keep your hands off me.”

Adam looks hurt while the others look surprised.

“At the gig,” Tommy says quickly. “I have to focus, I don’t want to fuck up.”

As a counterpoint, Isaac does a rat-a-tat-TAT and cymbal clash.

Adam grins and ruffles Tommy’s hair. “Okay, pretty kitty.”

Tommy doesn’t trust that tone as far as he can throw Headache Blackout’s refrigerator-sized drummer, aka Mr. Rhythm.

The other songs go mostly the same way – crap at first, but quickly turning into tight renditions.

Next they discuss the order of things, how they will show up: at one point Headache Blackout will step aside and the band will take over, invading from the wings. Monte’s already worked it out that Isaac can use Mr. Rhythm’s standard-setup drum kit. The synth and its stand will be stashed behind the stage amps before the place starts getting crowded.

“We’re rocking this old-school,” says Monte. “Agreed?”

They all nod and exchange grins because it sounds like so much fun.

“We all come from the clubs and this’ll be a groovy trip down memory lane. Keep it simple, dress down, go light on the glitter and makeup.”

“Wait a minute!” says Adam. “I already pulled together my Dandy Highwayman outfit.”

Monte shakes his head. “Remember Citizen Vein days? You can pull it back like that.”

Adam full-on pouts. “You want me to do _Stand and Deliver_ and _not_ wear a costume? Come on, Monte!”

Monte looks over at Tommy. “The Blackout is pretty hardcore.”

“They draw a good-sized crowd, too,” Tommy adds. “Hard drinkers.”

“I can rock,” Adam sulks.

“What if we change the order,” says Tommy. “Start with _Cadillac_ instead of _Stand_. They gotta love the Clash especially ‘cause we’re doing it Metallica-style.”

“Rope in the crowd, then surprise them,” Monte concurs. “Sweet.”

Isaac pounds on the snare drums for attention. “You can’t follow a metal _Cadillac_ with a chick song.”

“Chick song? What kind of asshole-ish put-down is that?” Cam says. “Are you trying to be subtly misogynistic?”

Isaac slaps his hand over his mouth and his eyes go wide.

“His bad,” Monte says calmly. “We all know Isaac doesn’t do subtle. Look, guys, we only have a few hours till showtime.”

Adam stamps – literally stamps – his foot on the floor. “We don’t have to accommodate the crowd. They’ll like us or hate us – isn’t that the old-school style? That we don’t give a fuck?” He glares around the garage. The band members glare back. No one is giving an inch. “If the audience doesn’t like it, we throw it in their faces.”

“Since when don’t you want audiences to suck your dick?” Cam asks. “The testosterone in this room is getting poisonous,” she adds when no one answers, waving her hand in front of her face as though fanning fumes away.

Adam turns on her. “Glad you think I have some, given that I’m a fag.”

“I’m a dyke, don’t give me ‘tude.”

“When did this become about sexuality?” Isaac asks, flinging one drumstick in the air. It lands with a clatter behind him.

“Straight men,” says Adam, rolling his eyes.

“Men,” corrects Cam, still holding a grudge about the _chick song_ remark.

“Hey,” says Monte, “nobody meant anything bad.”

“You’re telling us to be careful in case of homophobia?” Adam says angrily. “I did enough of that on Idol, I’m sick of it.”

“Are you seriously complaining about getting that break?” Isaac asks.

“I had to just clam up about my boyfriend because otherwise no one would have talked about my singing, just that I was a big fat homo.”

“No one’s blaming you for how you handled Idol,” Monte says, deliberately serene. “Is this about Headache Blackout? Because there’s nothing to worry about, they’re good people.”

Tommy hates discord. He wants to interject but when tempers start fraying in the band, he tends to huddle into himself, growing quieter. Monte is being all grownup and reasonable, Adam is brooding, Cam is still glaring at Isaac. He gathers his courage and says quietly, “Dude, their lead guitarist is a lesbian.”

Adam throws his hands in the air dramatically. “Then why can’t I just, I don’t know, do it in drag?” he demands.

“Adam, it’s not a drag scene,” says Monte. “The Troub is a rock-and-roll venue.”

“Fuck that,” says Adam. “Nobody tells me how to dress. It’s my band.”

Tommy is pretty shocked. It’s not like Adam to say shit like that. Sure, they got on each other’s nerves on the road sometimes, but they always had to pull it together by the next gig, the show going on and all that shit. This time, it’s only one gig and then they can go their separate ways for maybe months and that’s terrifying. That kind of shit festers until it gets gangrenous and before you know it, someone’s missing an arm or a leg.

“ _Your_ band?” Cam snaps.

“Enough,” Monte says, stopping everyone. “ _We_ are a band and this is going to be fun.” He extends his hand. “One for all and all for one.”

Tommy shuffles forward and puts his hand on top of Monte’s. Monte gives him a pleased nod. Isaac and Cam come from behind their instruments and add their hands. Adam looks at them all and puts his hand on the top.

“We’re a band,” Adam says. “That was a shitty thing for me to say. I love you guys. I’m not gonna lie, I would sleep with every single one of you if that’s what it took to keep you in the band.”

“Blech,” says Cam, smiling crookedly.

Isaac adds, “No thanks,” and Monte pitches in with, “Maybe another time,” making Adam crack up.

That leaves all four of them staring at Tommy. “Um, not necessary, I’ll stay no matter what?” he mumbles.

Adam claps his hands together loudly. “That’s settled. My virtue is intact and I still have a band. I mean _we_ have a band. And you are all required to be at my house-warming party this Saturday and bring your sweethearts and friends, end of story.”

“Yeah,” says Isaac. “Can I bring my nemesis?”

“You can bring your kindergarten teacher if that floats your boat.”

“We cool now?” asks Cam.

“All cool,” says Monte.

“Can I at least wear a marginally dandy outfit?” asks Adam contritely.

“Absolutely, just don’t make me have to give you the lecture about the difference between musical theater and rock-and-roll again.”

“And don’t be channeling Adam Ant,” Cam adds.

“I’ll be channeling Dick Turpin,” Adam promises.

“ _Dick_ Turpin?” snickers Isaac.

“Shut up,” Monte says mildly. “Let’s work on _Turning On._ ”

They finish up with just enough time for Tommy to make it to the Smokehouse to meet Jillian and Heath. He’s glad to have a dinner date with them; it’ll take his mind off things. As he zips the Squier into a gig bag, only Monte and Adam are still there. Monte is going to take Adam to the Troubadour so that no one sees the Mustang – unfortunately paps know license plate numbers. Monte pulls Adam by the arm over to the far side of the garage but, just as Tommy’s shouldering the gig bag and preparing to leave, he can hear Monte scolding, “What is up with you, Adam?”

Not meaning to, not able to help it, Tommy looks right at Adam just as Adam turns to look at him. Their eyes lock together across the space. Adam looks almost guilty. Monte tugs him behind a tall amp. Tommy scurries out of there.

* * *

Dinner is fun and really tasty, steaks and hush puppies and fries and cornbread and root beer and even a few vegetables. Jillian teases Tommy mercifully, but then that’s her job as lezbro. She doesn’t really know or understand; it’s not her fault Tommy’s falling apart inside.

Heath is kinder in a brusque, masculine sort of way that Tommy appreciates. He’s really liking Heath and hopes that she and Jillian stick together awhile. Plus which Heath likes Metallica and you can’t go wrong with Metallica.

While the girls are off on a ladies-room break (and Tommy honestly worries about what that means… are they getting it on in there?), Tommy pops a buttered hush puppy into his mouth and chews and thinks about why he lied to Adam about being busy all week. He’s about as busy as a sloth. He can’t wrap his brain around the idea of that third date. Technically there’s been no second date, but he’s afraid Adam doesn’t see it that way. What he really wants from Adam is just to be with him, in whatever way binds Adam to him the best. He figures that has to be sex. So… it’s third-date time.

Jillian slides back in the booth, followed by Heath.

“Daydreaming about Mr. Wonderful?” Jillian asks.

“What a joker.” Tommy tosses a hush puppy her way.

Jillian catches it. “Don’t waste these, they’re delicious.”

Tommy looks at his watch. “Damn, I want a mimosa.”

“Order one.”

“Shouldn’t.”

Jillian flags down the waiter and orders three mimosas. “You’re a bundle of nervous energy.”

The drinks loosen his tongue, and probably also his bass-playing fingers. He orders another plate of fries to soak up the alcohol and butterflies in his stomach.

“Pretty sure I convinced him I’m bi.”

Jillian looks suspicious, but Heath just asks, “Are you?”

Tommy nods. “I think.”

“Have you forgotten about –“ Jillian starts.

“Nope,” Tommy interrupts. “You’re coming to the show, right?”

* * *

Tommy barely escapes Jillian with his dignity undamaged. At nine-thirty he parks three blocks from the Troubadour – he can hear Headache Blackout from here – and slouches in through the alley door with his bass. Monte’s downstairs in the open area, running through some riffs. Drums and bass from the stage pound through the ceiling. As arranged, Cam and Isaac, as the least recognizable band members, are in the crowd upstairs.

Tommy gets out his bass and feels in his jeans pocket for extra picks, which are there.

The door to a dressing room opens and Adam bursts into the room, dressed like a highwayman, but at least a somewhat subdued highwayman. His black leather boots go up to the knee and are buckled six ways to Sunday. He’s found an amazing frock coat the color of cabernet, decorated with dozens of gold buttons, and a ruffled white shirt open at the neck, not exactly period but very sexy.

“Stand!” he yells, one arm out as though pointing a gun, then laughs delightedly at himself.

“Marginally dandy.” Monte clearly approves.

With fake hauteur, Adam looks down his nose at them. He whips out a black dime-store bandit mask and ceremoniously holds it in front of his eyes. “Too much?”

Monte and Tommy exchange glances and shrug.

“Up to you,” says Monte.

“Does that outfit come with a hat?” asks Tommy.

“Come in here,” Adam answers, disappearing into the dressing room again.

Tommy sets the bass aside and goes in.

“Sit,” says Adam, “I’m going to finish you.”

Adam’s got the makeup kit out and when Tommy doesn’t move, Adam grabs him by the waist and hoists him on the counter. Tommy squirms back against the mirror. Adam pushes Tommy’s legs open so he can stand between them. He gets out the eye shadow and positions his hand with the makeup brush next to Tommy’s face.

“Close your eyes, honey.”

Tommy obeys. He’d only put on liner and mascara earlier, too nervous for more. He lets himself breathe slowly while Adam’s hand rests on his cheekbone and the brush tickles his eyelids. Adam’s thighs are warm against his knees. The sensation is intense.

“You know how beautiful you are?” whispers Adam. Tommy can hear him picking up another pot of shadow.

“Pretty kitty,” Tommy whispers back.

“More than that. You’re the most beautiful person on the planet. Hold still.”

Tommy’s body is thrumming and he’s pretty fucking sure he’s about to pop a boner. He’s not going to survive this gig. It’s a tiny stage and the audience is right there and even the bass isn’t going to hide it.

“Done,” says Adam, setting aside the shadow and brush. “Keep your eyes closed.”

He feels Adam’s breath on his face and then Adam’s lips on his own, touching lightly. It’s nothing like the stage kisses. This is private and real, soft and sweet. Adam licks Tommy’s upper lip lightly and Tommy’s lips part.

“I want you,” whispers Adam against his mouth. “Since forever.”

Then Adam is kissing him properly, tenderly and thoroughly, tongues together, the sharpness of teeth now and then. Tommy surrenders to the tsunami, leaning against a dirty mirror in the graffiti-covered lower level of the Troubadour, muffled thrash metal reverberating through the building.

Outside the room, Monte calls, “Let’s go, muchachos, showtime.”

Adam pulls back and Tommy’s eyes open. Adam looks so sweet, a smile on his face and stars in his eyes.

“I lied about being busy,” Tommy says quietly.

“I knew,” says Adam. “It’s okay to be nervous. I’m going to take good care of you, baby. I’m going to lick and kiss you everywhere. _Everywhere,_ starting with your adorable toes.” He leans in and lays a last, chaste kiss on Tommy’s lips.

“Okay,” Tommy agrees, a promise and a benediction.

“Let’s go!” Monte barks from the other room.

The throbbing music is gone, it’s quiet. Tommy goes out first, grabbing his guitar and switching on his body pack transmitter. They go single file up the stairs to the side of the stage where they hide in the shadows. The place is decently full, probably 200 people in the audience, many of them dressed like the band, all black leather, chains, piercings and tattoos.

The Blackout’s frontman growls into the mic, “We’re gonna take a break, go powder our noses, our backup band will entertain you for a few minutes.”

“Fuck that!” yells someone in the crowd.

Mr. Rhythm steps to the stage edge, eyes blazing. “Shut the fuck up, Mike, you better behave or I will fuck. You. Up.”

There are scattered titters in the crowd and Mr. Rhythm grins demonically.

The lights are killed suddenly and Tommy gets jostled by stage hands who grab the synth and set it up fast, guided by glow-in-the-dark X’s on the floor. A gigantic hand grabs his shoulder and Mr. Rhythm says near his ear, “They give you trouble, let me know. Hey, Monte, ‘sup.”

“Thanks, man,” whispers Monte. “See you after.” He and Tommy find their way in the dark to their usual spots, nearly colliding with Cam and Isaac who are clambering onto the stage.

The natives are restless in the dark.

Cam hits the tally-ho and Isaac pounds into the opening drumbeat like a herd of stampeding stallions, stretching it out for several extra measures. The lights blaze into being. The stunned looks on the faces of the audience are fucking funny and Tommy has to drop his hair in front of his face so he can’t see them because otherwise he’s going to break out laughing. Then Cam hits the crazy horse sound and Adam runs out from the wings – wearing the mask and also a totally over-the-top tri-corner hat; after all he’s still Adam – and jumps right into the spotlight in the center of the stage, points at the audience, and yells, “Stand and deliver!” into the mic.

After that it’s all gravy because the crowd _loves_ it as soon as they figure out who’s onstage. Adam prances around like a very dandy highwayman, sometimes stooping to let the people in front touch his hand. Tommy thinks he spots Heath and Jillian in the back of the room, waving at him, the dorks. The song goes by at light speed and Tommy maybe fucked up here and there but it doesn’t matter, Monte covered everything like he always does.

They don’t even stop when the song is over; they pitch right into _Brand New Cadillac_. Adam frisbees the hat into the crowd and pulls off the mask, dropping it on the stage, and they go roaring through the song.

This is what Tommy loves best, the camaraderie of band mates, the audience, the electricity of the music, the vibrating floor. It doesn’t matter that this audience is a tenth of what they’ve been playing to on the Glam Nation tour. Rock music makes him feel powerful – look how much racket we can make! He feels so in tune with Cam and Monte, and especially with Isaac since the two of them are responsible for laying down the beat and rocking it steady as Poe’s pendulum. He’s in a hazy groove, the walking bass line is classic even if it’s simple and he loves playing it. Adam is all over the tiny stage, bumping into Monte and Tommy half the time and laughing about it. During the musical bridge Adam blows right past Tommy’s admonition to keep his hands off by grabbing his hair and reeling him in, kissing him filthy and deep to the cheers of the audience. Tommy loses the bass line for a few seconds but at least he keeps his feet under him. And sure enough, there’s that awkward boner.

By halfway through _Back Off My Baby_ it’s obvious that Twitter has been going wild because the place is getting really crowded, the people in back shoving up against those in front. Monte judged it about right – do four songs and then flee like the forces of hell are on their heels.

During the last song, the Citizen Vein one, Adam hangs near the mic stand and Tommy is reminded of the old video of him and Monte and their band doing this song. Adam with no glitter, no tats, no holes in the ears, just brown hair and a beautiful voice, halfway between the unloved, chubby, red-headed teenager and the awesomeness that is Adam Lambert. _Forming,_ Tommy thinks, and he falls a bit more in love with Adam.

The song ends, Adam yells “Give it up for Headache Blackout!” The lights go out and they scramble off the stage to screams and applause, colliding into each other and barely getting away unscathed.

In the wings they pass the Blackout members. “Thanks for warming up the crowd,” says the frontman with friendly sarcasm, bumping Monte’s fist.

“Hope we didn’t spoil them,” says Monte.

“We’re tough, we can take it.”

“Maybe you’ll make some new fans tonight,” Adam throws in.

In the dressing room Monte hurries them along. “We don’t have much time to escape before some of those people figure it out.”

They stow instruments and shrug on jackets and sneak outside the back of the building but Monte won’t let them slow down until they reach his van a few blocks away.

“That was so rad,” Tommy says, still buzzing with the performance high.

The others grin like maniacs. Isaac is bouncing up and down on his toes.

“Group hug!” cries Adam, opening his arms wide, and they all snuggle in and hug the shit out of each other. They decide to rendezvous at the Roost on Los Feliz because they’re not ready to be apart yet. It’s a red-walled dive with a jukebox heavy on the country, but the drinks are cheap and it’s a haven for both oldsters and hipsters, not celebrities and definitely not paparazzi. No one bothers them as they crowd into a circular booth.

Mimosas seem to be the drink du jour so Tommy gets one, now that he doesn’t have to concentrate on playing a coherent bass line. He’s crammed up against Adam’s side; he didn’t fail to notice that as soon as he’d slid into the booth, Adam had made a feint around Isaac and gotten in the booth next. Now Adam’s arm is over his shoulder, resting on the back of the banquette, fingers playing with the ends of Tommy’s hair. He’s still wearing the frock coat, which is very soft up close, which Tommy only knows because he seems at some point to have laid his cheek on Adam’s shoulder.

He sits quietly, fielding a text from Jillian, and listens while the others relive the gig. Whenever one of them comes up with a toast, he picks up his mimosa and clinks glasses with everyone. Mostly it’s about the band and the tour and the new album, but at some point Isaac throws in one about how lesbians so totally rock and Cam adds another about how straight men are the bomb.

Tommy smiles. He’s glad his friends are friends again. Music is awesome because it brings them together. He loses track of time and then suddenly Adam is nudging him and asking, “Give me a ride home?”

He gets out of the booth and sways a little, but it’s tiredness or stress, it’s emphatically not because of one fucking mimosa. He walks out in the straightest line he can manage so Adam won’t offer to drive Bessie. She’s temperamental for anyone but Tommy anyway.

He chooses a route through the Hills where it’s dark and quiet, the winding roads soothing. He used to drive through here when he was young, looking out at the Los Angeles basin glittering in the night and wishing he could live up here one day. Adam fiddles with the radio but keeps it low, puts a hand on Tommy’s thigh and strokes lightly.

The meditative journey is disrupted by a sudden thumping as the front wheel pulls to the right.

“Whoa!” Adam says, grabbing the handle above the passenger door.

“Feels like Bessie threw a shoe,” Tommy sighs, pulling the car over on the side away from the drop-off. They get out and look at the flat tire.

Adam gets his phone out and dials.

“Don’t do that,” Tommy says, “I can change a flat.”

“Huh? Why bother, I’ll just call a car service.”

Tommy’s already rummaging in the trunk. He hauls out a Maglite, flicks it on, and hands it to Adam. “I’ll be done before they get here.”

Adam taps his phone off. “Really?”

“I need light,” says Tommy, so Adam aims the flashlight into the trunk. Tommy unscrews the spare and hefts it out, setting it on the road. “Keep an eye out for cars going fast around the curve. Not a lot of room here.” He finds the jack and moves to the front of the car, where he assembles the jack and shoves it beneath the car until he finds the undercarriage. He goes to the side of the road and finds a large rock which he shoves against the left rear wheel.

Adam is staring at him, practically gape-mouthed. “Tommy, I didn’t know you could do this.”

Tommy grins wryly. “I’m a guy,” he says, using the tire iron to loosen the lug-nuts on the right front wheel.

“What should I do?”

“Chill, I got it. Just keep the light steady.” Tommy jacks up the car. It takes awhile. He spins the lugs off and removes the tire, then goes to the spare and wheels it over. This isn’t the first tire he’s changed by a long shot, but the booze has loosened his muscles and the thing is heavy even though it’s not a full-service spare. He gets it in place and reverses everything, screwing the lugs in, tightening them with the iron, lowering the car, removing the jack, and then tightening the lugs again.

“This is so educational,” Adam says. “It’s really pretty hot. You’re _manly_ , Tommy.”

Tommy flips his hair out of his eyes. He’s not sure what to think. Is Adam teasing? It’s obvious he’s never changed a tire, though, so he figures maybe Adam’s serious. “Can I have the flashlight?” he asks. When Adam hands it over, Tommy rolls the flat tire slowly, inspecting it carefully until he finds what he is searching for.

“What’s that?” asks Adam, fascinated.

“A screw. It’s in there pretty good. Probably from that construction site near my apartment, there’s always shit all over. They track it out in the streets.”

“I’ll put the tire in the trunk,” Adam offers, “you did all the other work.”

Tommy steps back and gives a be-my-guest gesture. He expects Adam to be surprised at the weight. Which he is, for one second, and then he lifts it and settles it in the trunk like it’s light as a feather, turning around with a big smile, brushing at his dusty frock coat.

Tommy is always astonished at how strong Adam is, because he doesn’t seem like he would be. But yep, he is. And boy is _that_ ever hot.

* * *

When they reach Adam’s driveway he’s not sure what he is supposed to do, drop him off or what.

“Are you coming in?” Adam asks, one hand on the door handle but looking at Tommy all hopeful and shit. “Please?”

Tommy turns off the engine. His legs feel rubbery once he’s out of the car and walking. Adam unlocks the front door and holds it for Tommy. He hits a switch to bring up soft lighting, then leads Tommy down into the sunken living room, telling him _watch the steps_. He picks up a remote and aims it at the stereo, and dreamily quiet and sexy Arabian music floods the house. _What the fuck? Where’s Adam been keeping that musical taste?_ They keep walking, up the steps into the dining room and then the kitchen, where Tommy remembers sitting at the kitchen island, eating ice cream in perfect contentment. It seems a long while ago.

It looks different, though, in the dark. Adam strikes a match and lights two candles, and then Tommy sees a bottle of wine, a cork-puller, and two wine glasses.

For me? Tommy thinks, and then stutters it out: “For me?”

Adam smiles that I’m-in-charge smile. He picks up the bottle and expertly uncorks it. He may not know how to change a flat but he definitely knows his way around a wine cellar. “I need to get out of this coat. Let the wine breathe and I’ll be right back.”

While he’s gone, Tommy drapes his jacket over one of the tall stools and washes his hands at the sink, then wipes them off on his jeans. He checks the freezer to see if there’s any ice cream. Nope. He sits on one of the stools and drags the wine bottle closer to read the label. Pinot noir. He has no idea how to pronounce that.

Adam reappears, barefoot, wearing one of his many grayscale graphic tees and a pair of jeans. “This stuff is really good,” he says, picking up the bottle and holding it over the glass nearer to Tommy. “Want to try it?”

Tommy’s tongue seems stuck in his mouth. He nods in lieu of speaking.

Adam keeps talking while they drink, about where the wine came from and how he got interested in Middle Eastern music. The wine is good, like, really good. Tommy is on his second glass when he realizes that Adam is standing and tugging on his hand. Tommy sets the wine glass down and allows himself to be towed into the living room _(watch the steps)_ , where Adam pulls Tommy into his arms and starts to sway to the music.

“Are we dancing?” Tommy asks, astounded.

“Mmm, yeah, isn’t it nice?”

“I told you more than once, I can’t dance,” Tommy reminds him, trying to sound cross and failing completely, wrapping his arms around Adam’s back and pushing his head under Adam’s chin. Because, seriously? Being held by Adam is incredible, and if Adam wants to sway around and waltz him across the floor? What the fuck ever.

“Shush,” Adam whispers, “I’ll do the dancing for you.”

It’s mesmerizing… the sinuous music, the soft lighting, the warmth of Adam’s body and the way he smells, a little bit sweaty but not in a bad way.

“Bet you even took ballroom dancing,” Tommy mumbles against Adam’s tee.

“Of course I did. Musical theater, remember?”

Tommy giggles.

“Hey, I can even do a Highland fling, so don’t laugh at me or I might have to show you.”

“Kay, I won’t.” The music goes on and on, making Tommy feel sleepy. Drinks and dancing, yep, this is a date. He goes all loose, lets Adam take most of his weight. He starts to feel like he’s in an old movie about a handsome Arabian sheik and caravans crossing the sand at night, swaying to the sounds of the camels’ hoof beats, tents of silk, heaps of pillows and dancing girls – or boys, he’s not particular so long as the sheik pays attention only to one of them, the bleached-blond one – and oh fuck he’s fantasizing _Lawrence of Arabia._

“Are you laughing again?” Adam teases.

“Mmhph,” Tommy says.

“You’re getting heavy,” Adam says, hauling him over to the red velvet sofa. He flops down and pulls Tommy onto his lap.

Tommy blinks and rubs at one eye with a fist.

“Sleepy, honey?” Adam asks.

Tommy nods. Adam holds him firmly in place with an arm around his waist. Tommy lets his forearms drop onto Adam’s shoulders. Adam reaches up and strokes two fingers across Tommy’s mouth, tracing the line of his lips, soft as a whisper.

It’s always Adam kissing him, not really the other way round. Oh, he’s given Adam a kiss on the shoulder or the cheek. But never his mouth. So he decides he’s going to do it right now, kiss Adam. Adam’s fingers move along his cheek and touch his ear, and then his hand goes around the back of Tommy’s head, but before he can pull Tommy forward, Tommy leans in and touches his lips to Adam’s.

He can feel Adam’s gasp more than hear it, can feel that Adam is hard. He wants, he wants, so much. He knows Adam is waiting for him.

Tommy licks Adam’s lips and they open and then Tommy really kisses him and that’s about as much initiative as Adam lets him have because suddenly he’s crushed against Adam’s chest with Adam’s insistent tongue in his mouth and Adam’s grabby hands under his shirt, on his back, pushing inside his jeans and underwear until he can squeeze Tommy’s ass. It's pretty snug in there. Tommy pushes back because, hey, he’s the one who changed the tire and if he hadn’t done that they would probably still be out on that dark road instead of here, making out like two horny teenagers.

Still, there’s that size difference, no denying it, so when Adam grabs his waist and puts him on his back he can’t prevent it, even while his legs and arms are flailing for purchase on the sofa back, the coffee table – anything. Too late, because Adam’s on top of him, one hand scrabbling awkwardly at Tommy’s zipper.

“Fuck!” Tommy cries out.

“Let me,” Adam whispers. “Let me, let me.”

But he can’t seem to get coordinated enough to make the zipper work, maybe because Tommy is squirming which is not at all helpful, so he dips his head and kisses Tommy messily instead. Tommy’s fingers find their way into Adam’s thick hair. Adam’s hand squeezes his dick and Tommy can’t help it – he groans and his mouth goes slack and –

And Adam stops trying to kiss him and stares down at him. “Did you just _come,_ Tommy Joe?”

That’s embarrassing enough without being fucking _asked_ about it. Tommy turns his head away.

“No, no, it’s fine, I’m so flattered, baby.” Adam takes one of Tommy’s hands that is hanging off the edge of the sofa and kisses the palm. “I know what, we’ll grab a shower.”

He clambers off Tommy and that’s not right, Adam didn’t come. Tommy catches up to him at the bottom of the stairs and grabs Adam from behind, clutches his arms around Adam’s waist and presses his cheek against Adam’s back. He hasn’t had a dick other than his own in his hand for over a decade but this is Adam so he undoes the belt and is way more successful with Adam’s zipper than Adam was with his. Adam waits, breathing heavily, one hand over the arm that Tommy has snugged around him. Tommy gets Adam’s dick in his hand and it’s big all right. It’s never going to fit in his ass, that’s something he’s damn sure of. He’s not too sure about his mouth, either.

“More,” says Adam, a pleading note in his voice.

Tommy strokes him – gives him as much _more_ as he can. Then Adam’s free hand covers his and he shows Tommy what he needs, faster and harder until he’s panting Tommy’s name and comes all over both of their hands.

That’s about the worst sex Tommy has had in a long while. He feels like shit, like he messed it all up. It’s totally his fault. But Adam doesn’t seem to notice, because in short order Tommy finds himself surrounded by hot water, delicious-smelling shampoo, fluffy towels, naked Adam, naked _Tommy,_ and then soft silky sheets and down comforters. In the dark, Adam spoons around him like Tommy knew he would, and whispers against his hair, “Tommy, oh my god, Tommy,” over and over. He squeezes the arm that encircles him, to let Adam know it’s okay.

* * *

When he wakes the room is bright with sunshine. He can hear birds singing; a window is cracked open, it promises to be a warm day. He smells something sharply incongruous. Lifting his head from the pillow, he finds that one of his feet is protruding from the covers, resting in Adam’s lap where Adam sits cross-legged, fully dressed, at the foot of the gigantic bed.

Adam is painting his toenails purple.

“You bastard,” Tommy says.

Adam smiles sunnily. “Coffee, tea or me?”

“You, of course,” Tommy answers and flops back down.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Author's note: I am happy that Tommy Joe Ratliff tweeted excitedly about Jeff Beck's winning at the Grammys. Tommy knows all the greats. He's so cool._

“Hungry?” Adam asks, blowing on the fresh polish on Tommy’s toenails.

“Tickles!” Tommy says, wriggling.

“Baby, don’t you mess up my handiwork.” Adam puts the polish aside and gets off the bed.

“Hey, what about my other foot? Finish the job,” says Tommy. “I don’t wanna be un… um… symmetrical. What if it makes me lose my balance and fall?”

“That doesn’t explain your hair.”

“Nothing explains my hair.”

“I like your hair.”

“Whatever, asshole. Do my other foot.”

“Already done,” Adam says with a lopsided smirk.

“Huh?” Tommy pokes the foot in question out from under the covers. “Wow. I didn’t even wake up?”

“You were a tired kitten.” Adam grabs Tommy’s ankle and bends down to kiss the littlest toe. He wiggles the toe between his fingers. “This little piggy went to market…” And then wiggles the adjacent toe. “And this little piggy stayed home.” He kisses that toe, too, glancing slyly up at Tommy.

“You don’t have to count, I have ten.”

Adam licks the instep and Tommy honest-to-god shrieks and yanks his foot back under the covers.

“Don’t move,” Adam says, patting the covers approximately where the offended foot is hiding. "I’ll be right back.”

Turns out Adam already went out and brought breakfast back. Tommy’s mad he missed out on the whole waking up with Adam thing. Who knows when he’ll get to do it again. He’s not even sure Adam will want any more of that wretched sex, it was that bad. Maybe that’s why Adam got dressed, maybe he wants to let Tommy down gently.

Well, fuck that, Tommy’s not going to be let down gently when he’s got morning breath.

While Adam’s downstairs grabbing everything to bring upstairs, Tommy hops out of bed and runs into the master bath. He finds an unopened toothbrush exactly like his favorite kind, with a sticky note that says _Tommy’s_. Go Adam. Tommy brushes his teeth using Adam’s toothpaste and then grimaces at his raccoon eyes and scrawny chest in the mirror.

When he hears Adam coming up the stairs he gets back under the covers just in time and pretends like he’s napping.

“I know you, you’re not going to sleep through a bacon-egg-bagel sandwich. Sit up.”

Tommy opens one eye; Adam is putting a carryout tray with two cups of coffee and Brooklyn Bagel wraps on a table by the bed.

“I’m all naked,” Tommy complains.

“Yes, you are,” agrees Adam.

Tommy is very reluctant to leave the safety of the sheets in Adam’s presence. Also, it’s still kind of cold and the comforter is toasty-warm.

“You can’t eat in a prone position,” Adam says reasonably.

Tommy sits up, blows his bangs out of his face, and hikes the sheet up under his armpits as though he’s trying to hide his boobs or something. He feels beyond ridiculous; after all Adam saw him naked last night, in fact the both of them slept together naked as jaybirds.

“Where are my clothes?”

“In the dryer.”

Adam sits on the bed next to Tommy, on the top of the covers. He fluffs two pillows and then grabs Tommy’s hair and pulls him down and puts a pillow behind him. “Better?” he asks, releasing the hair. Tommy thumps back against the pillow. The other pillow is plopped next to it and Adam leans back against it. He reaches back for the coffee cups.

“I’m _naked,_ ” Tommy repeats emphatically.

In the blink of an eye, the coffee is forgotten. “Let me see,” Adam says, leaning in close, letting his free hand touch Tommy’s throat, his chin, drawing a finger along one eyebrow. The hand cups his face, warm on his cheek, fingers jostling his earrings. He presses warm lips to Tommy’s shoulder while his hand moves to Tommy’s throat and then dips down and tries to meander beneath the sheet.

“ _NAKED,_ ” Tommy insists, holding the sheet firmly in place.

“I _know,_ ” Adam says in a voice that’s developing a ragged hint of roughness.

“I don’t want to be.”

Adam’s hand stops and he draws back far enough to look into Tommy’s eyes.

“I don’t want to be naked _alone,_ ” Tommy clarifies.

The look in Adam’s eyes is dark, intense. Tommy feels itchy under it. Adam rolls off the bed, grabs the hem of his shirt, pulls it over his head and drops it on the floor. Without breaking eye contact he unbuckles his belt.

Tommy swallows, watching. He’s in for it now. He hopes. Yep, there go the boots, the socks, the jeans and the underwear. Tommy must have miscalculated about being let down gently. He tries hard to maintain eye contact instead of ogling anything lower than Adam’s face. So he misses the cues that might have warned him when Adam grabs the covers and flings them off.

“Whoa, dude!” Tommy feels like a Victorian virgin in her marriage bed, trying to fend off an attempt at _droit de seigneur_ from the lord of the manor. Most of his focus is spent on making sure he doesn’t reflexively cover his junk with his hands, because how stupid would that be?

Adam climbs onto the bed on his knees and grabs Tommy by his calves and pulls him down flat on the mattress, then straddles him, bracketing Tommy’s narrow hips between his thighs. Looming like a colossus. It’s not dark night now, it’s daylight and everything is right out in the open. Adam’s shoulders are seriously big, easily twice the size of his own. And that’s not even mentioning his big dick.

Adam looks down his nose at Tommy, play-acting the big bad freckled god of love, so Tommy giggles.

“Oh, nice, you mock me.” Adam pretends to be annoyed.

“Curtains don’t match the carpet,” Tommy says.

Adam’s eyes sweep over Tommy’s goose bump-covered body. “Yours either.” He reaches down and runs his fingers along Tommy’s thigh. “You are so beautiful. How are you so beautiful?”

“Not,” says Tommy.

“Your skin is like porcelain.”

“My skin is cold.”

“Okay, marble.”

“No,” Tommy says, “I mean I’m cold. And, you know, _naked_.”

Adam reaches behind himself for the covers and pulls them over his back, then lies down more or less on top of Tommy. He props his elbows on either side of Tommy’s head and holds the covers over them. “Better?”

“Mmmm. You’re fucking heavy.”

Adam shifts his hips a little to one side and pushes one thigh between Tommy’s legs, nudging up against his balls, and fuck, that’s Adam’s dick against his belly. It’s fucking amazing. Tommy’s skin is electric with sensation.

“You feel so good,” Adam says quietly, shifting his weight onto one elbow and running his free hand across Tommy’s prominent collarbones and then down his chest. He runs the flat of his palm over a nipple, rubbing it gently. “Is this okay?”

Tommy nods, no good at words right now. His thin arms reach up and encircle Adam’s neck.

Adam seems to find what he needs in Tommy’s eyes. He smiles affectionately and bends to kiss Tommy. It’s slow and tender; for once, Tommy has time to catalogue the sensations. Adam’s lips are warm and soft, his hands are kind of soft, too – no guitar-playing calluses like Tommy has. Tommy buzzes with the feel of Adam’s tongue stroking his. He shivers even though Adam’s body throws off heat like a furnace. It’s almost too much, and just enough.

Adam runs his hand down to Tommy’s stomach firmly and smoothly and then moves his hand around to Tommy’s back. It feels as though the hand could span his entire back, as the fingers run along the bumps in his spine.

Adam’s kisses turn wet and messy. That’s what a big tongue will do, Tommy figures, a second before he finds Adam’s tongue licking his nipples, one after the other. Tommy arches his back and wraps a leg around Adam’s, pressing his dick against Adam’s. Fuck, that feels incredible.

Adam licks Tommy’s chin and kisses his nose and then stares down at him again. “You have the most gorgeous lips ever,” he says. “Such a perfect boy.”

Tommy squirms. “’M not perfect.”

“You are,” Adam insists reverently. He traces the lips in question with a finger. “So perfect.”

“Crooked teeth,” Tommy says, because he’s blushing under all the attention and compliments and shit.

“I love your smile,” Adam says.

Tommy’s not going to smile at that, he’s just plain not going to. “You’re mental.”

Adam smiles for him. “You’re absolutely stunning.”

“You’re crazy.” And why is it he can insult away – admittedly jokingly – while Adam just responds with sweeter and sweeter words?

“Your eyes,” Adam isn’t stopping, “ _so_ amazing. You have the longest eyelashes for a boy.”

“No ass,” Tommy counters.

“Oh, you have an ass,” Adam says, voice turning wicked as his hand steals down under him, grabbing Tommy’s ass and squeezing. “It’s tiny and perfect.”

Clearly, Adam possesses an unending capacity to praise Tommy while not seeming put out at all that it’s not reciprocated. Which is wrong somehow, because it’s not that Tommy doesn’t think Adam is beyond beautiful because he does. He just doesn’t know how to tell that to him. It’s hard enough telling girls they’re pretty, although he usually manages that. Tommy’s never talkative in bed. He wants to give Adam something, though. He struggles with it and finally just pulls Adam’s head down to his and brings their mouths together. Adam’s an awesome kisser and Tommy loves kissing. He also loves Adam’s lips, freckles and all.

“I want to make you happy,” he says, squinching his eyes closed so he can hide and pretend Adam can’t see inside him, see his feelings and emotions and other private stuff.

“You are making me happy, Tommy Joe Ratliff,” says Adam. “Very, very happy.” Adam’s hand is on his ass again, pulling him in closer, rocking them gently.

God, that sounds awesome. Adam deserves to be happy, Adam deserves a boyfriend who won’t hold back. Even when Adam stops rocking and pushes Tommy’s legs open wide and re-settles himself between them and oh boy, Tommy tenses up.

“ _Adam._ ”

“Don’t worry, honey,” Adam says.

“I’m not worried,” Tommy scoffs without conviction. He’s a guy, guys don’t worry about sex.

“I mean it’s going to be okay, we won’t rush anything, I won’t hurt you.” Adam strokes his arm carefully.

“Easy for you to say, your ass isn’t the one that’s going to have a dick up it.” Tommy could slap a hand over his own mouth but he’s been thinking that so much that it’s really no surprise it popped out eventually.

Adam hesitates. “Is that what you think? Tommy, no, there’s no rules. Not with you.” He touches Tommy’s face. “Do you want to top me?”

Tommy shakes his head. He can’t look at Adam. He still can’t wrap his brain around homo-sex. He thought Adam was a big old top and he’s not sure how he feels about tops, bottoms, and all that. What he wants is kissing and holding and orgasms. He’s a little unclear on how those all are going to happen or mesh together or whatever the fuck. But then Tommy’s spent his life working on the principle of learn-it-when-you-need-it-and-don’t-waste-time-until.

“Come here,” says Adam, weirdly, because he’s already there, but then Adam rolls over so that Tommy is lying on top of him. The sheets are getting seriously bunched up around them. Adam rearranges Tommy’s legs and his own until the position is reversed and Adam’s got the girly open legs with Tommy between them, in a position that’s kind of more familiar to him. Not that he knows what to do with it since his dick is meeting up with another dick instead of a girly part that he can’t even name inside his head right now because it would be wrong to think about girls when he’s here with Adam, who in spite of embracing his feminine side is really pretty masculine. Tommy has a random thought that he’s going to teach Adam to change a tire, because Adam’s masculinity is really fucking appealing.

They’re both hard and Adam crooks his knee, plants a foot on the mattress, and uses the leverage to start rocking their groins together again. His big hand covers Tommy’s tiny ass and presses him down, increasing the pressure. It’s a little rough because there’s nothing but precome between them.

“Fuck,” Tommy swears, grasping at Adam’s shoulders and hiding his hot face against Adam’s chest.

“Does this feel good?”

Tommy nods, his stubble no doubt scraping Adam’s soft skin. Tommy’s pretty quiet during sex; he’s always been like that, maybe because ever since growing up he’s never had a house, always an apartment. He doesn’t like to share his private life with others.

“Can you come like this?” Adam asks.

 _Oh fuck yes._

“I love you, Tommy. I love you so much.”

That’s too much right there. Tommy gasps (quietly) and tries to hang on while he falls apart and comes all over their stomachs, and Adam’s there to make sure he’s okay.

“Baby,” Adam whispers. He’s still pushing against Tommy, and Tommy’s dick is really sensitive and his ass is seriously going to have a gigantic handprint on it later but he doesn’t care and anyway now there’s more lubrication to make it easier. Adam’s making the most amazing sounds, not loud but definitely sexy. Tommy rubs his cheek against the closest nipple, then takes the small bar in his teeth and tugs. He feels Adam’s body tense, his back arching and lifting Tommy with it as though he’s weightless. And then there’s more damp warmth between them. Adam exhales and falls back to the bed and hugs Tommy fiercely.

This is why he’s doing this, Tommy tells himself: for this moment. Tommy may be a boy but he loves cuddling and no one cuddles like Adam. He already knew that, but now he knows that Adam-style cuddling is, like, a thousand times magnified when it’s after sex. He lies contently on Adam’s chest, his breathing evening out. It’s a little hot now, under the covers, but he could give a crap.

After awhile, Adam peels back the sheets and rolls them onto their sides, still entwined. The hand on Tommy’s ass gives it a playful squeeze. Tommy presses back against Adam because he can’t answer in words, and a moment later he feels Adam’s lips on his own, and then the hand moves to his face, fingers running along his jawline.

Adam kisses him so tenderly it hurts. “Thank you, baby,” he says, pressing their foreheads together. “Sweetheart, I’ve been in love with you so long. I thought I couldn’t _have_ you is all. It was selfish of me to take all the kisses you let me have but it was the only way – I wanted it so much – and I thought I could stay cool and handle it.”

All Tommy can think is how Adam said _love_.They’ve traded the word between them a lot in the past, but that was different. This feels scary in a significant new way. Tommy wants to say something but his tongue won’t work right. So he takes one hand away from Adam’s neck and catches the hand on his jaw; he weaves their fingers together. It’s the best he can do.

After awhile Adam says, “I’ll bet the coffee’s cold.”

Tommy snorts.

“Totally worth it,” Adam decides.

* * *

After a drowsy mid-morning shower and warm clothes right from the dryer, they nuke the coffee and bagel sandwiches and eat them at the kitchen island. Breakfast in bed will have to be another date, Adam announces.

Adam has to meet a producer in Hollywood in an hour. He tells Tommy to stay at the house if he wants, but Tommy needs to pick up strings at McCabe’s in Santa Monica. His mom has been after him to visit his aunt in Palm Desert, so he might do that.

Adam wants another date. He wants to take Tommy to some nice restaurant. Paps aside, it sounds cool, but still. Paps.

“You go all sorts of places with me,” argues Adam. “They’re so used to seeing you with me, they won’t think anything of it.”

Tommy shrugs. “If you’re willing to chance it.”

“I’m willing,” Adam says, clearing the island of clutter, then capturing Tommy’s waist in one arm and leaning over to plant a messy kiss on his mouth.

“Okay,” says Tommy, feeling warm inside.

He decides to enjoy it while he can, because Jillian’s probably going to a shit a brick later when she inevitably pries the details out of him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Author's note: I'm bringing this whole story arc over from ye olde livejournal, and wow is it LONG. It seems I wrote a lot of words._

It’s all over the internet about the Troubadour gig. The tweets are shrill. Some of the L.A. fans sound kind of angry that they didn’t get notice ahead of time. A few who lived near enough to the venue and saw the tweets managed to make it by the last song, and they crow about it. Everyone’s either ecstatic, furious, or jealous.

Tommy thumbs off his phone and sighs. Can’t always get what you want, bitches.

Lord knows Tommy understands that; some days it seems like he’s rarely gotten what he wanted. That’s why he doesn’t trust this thing with Adam at all. Not at all. Although, yeah, he’s going to hang onto it while he’s got it. Now that he has permission to touch Adam, really _touch_ , he wants to be with Adam all the time. It’s physically painful being away from him, but it’s necessary, because Adam is very wrapped up in working out the details for the new album and getting ready for events like the Grammys, what with his nomination.

Now that Tommy doesn’t have that stupid call-center job _or_ the Glam Nation tour, he has more free time on his hands than he ever did before. He’s not rich, but he doesn’t need a horrid nine-to-five job to make the rent. He and Monte play for the door sometimes at local venues, and it’s amusing how little they get for that considering a year ago he’d have been thrilled to use it to pay for a meal or two. Sometimes they use the money to buy drinks for the fans or just hand it off to a homeless person as they walk back to their cars after the gigs.

Unlike Adam, shopping doesn’t interest him and his taste in food is Tito’s Tacos, so that leaves out stores and restaurants as a way of killing time. His favorite food is cheap Mexican and he already has some cool tees and jeans, some shoes and boots, and a bracelet or so, mostly given to him by other people. What more does he need? Guitar stores, he’ll go into those, clothes, meh. Friends like Jillian and Mia and Dave have jobs so he can’t pester them during the workday. He spends time practicing on his bass and he goes to lots of other people’s gigs which is cool. He hangs with Cam or Taylor sometimes; other times he goes to the library to read actual books or goes to a matinee of old horror movies by himself. He gives Lisa a break every once in awhile by babysitting, although with the new twins he can’t really do that by himself. Diapers scare the shit out of him.

To keep himself occupied this Tuesday, so that he doesn’t go running after Adam like a teenage girl, he buys several sets of strings and a bunch of his favorite picks at McCabe’s, then gets the flat repaired at his friend’s auto shop, where he gets fast service because he knows the owner. After that, it’s a nice day so he drives his mom out to Palm Desert because otherwise he’s going to crawl out of his skin thinking about Adam, and Adam’s hands, and Adam’s long legs, and Adam’s tongue in all sorts of inconvenient places. This drive, with his mom along, is a good object lesson in keeping it in his pants.

He gets home late, pussyfoots up to his apartment and lets himself in and turns the television on, keeping it quiet.

Adam’s been texting all day. The producer interview went well but Adam’s trying to convince them not to hire session musicians but to use the band instead. He had dinner with Taylor so at least Tommy doesn’t have to get paranoid that Adam was off boinking a twink somewhere. He sends a photo of Taylor eating sushi and pretending to gag.

Tommy answered a couple of texts but most of the time he was driving, or sitting on his aunt’s plastic-sheathed couch, drinking lemonade and trying to keep up with the latest medical issues of half the elderly population of Palm Desert.

The phone chirps yet again and Tommy looks at it. Adam’s text says he’s tired. And lonely. Tommy smiles. He’s tired, too, in that way you get with a drive into the desert, going blind from the brightness. He texts back that he’s home. In another moment the phone rings and he picks up. “Yo.”

“Come over.” Adam’s tired voice is the sexiest thing ever.

“It’s late.”

“Don’t care. Come snuggle.”

Tommy wants to say, why don’t you come here? Then again he’s still living down the other night when Adam was kind of loud and sort of upset. Karma’s all wrong. Tommy decides what the fuck and grabs his jacket. It’s a twenty-minute drive but he makes it fifteen. Traffic’s light, it’s not like he speeds or anything uncool like that.

Adam lets him in, like he was waiting, kisses him against the closed door. “You came,” Adam whispers.

“Not yet,” says Tommy.

“You are so funny, honey,” Adam teases.

Tommy is still sandwiched between the door and Adam. _Depeche Mode_ is on the stereo in the other room. Adam’s barefoot and Tommy’s in his low creepers, and Adam is still taller than him. Not that much, because Tommy’s not quite as _tiny_ as people like to say, but he’s definitely built on the basic model of a twig. “You gonna let me in? I drove all this way, asshole.”

“You are in,” says Adam. His hand reaches down, skimming Tommy’s hip, and throws the deadbolt.

“More in,” says Tommy, feeling Adam’s hands settle low on his hips.

For an answer Adam leans close and nuzzles Tommy’s cheek. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Um, nothing?”

“Good, let’s go to Six Flags.”

“For serious?”

Adam leans away again. “How long has it been since you’ve been to Six Flags?”

“High school. Don’t like roller coasters.”

“The thing about heights?”

Tommy nods.

“Something tamer then. Knott’s Berry Farm.”

Tommy snorts. “Are you shitting me?”

Adam laughs. “You saying you don’t have a jones for Bear Country Jamboree?”

“Pretty sure that’s in Disneyland.”

“Bumper cars, then.” He runs one hand down Tommy’s arm and takes his hand. “Come on. I’m watching the lights and listening to music.”

Tommy lets himself be led into the house, just like the night before.

Adam starts to sing along in a soft voice, “Flagstaff Arizona, don’t forget Winona, Kingman, Barstow, San Bernardino.”

“Didn’t know you like this.” Tommy scratches at his rose tattoo.

“Hey, they’ve got some great songs.”

The big room at the back of the house has a wall of windows. In the darkness it’s not easy to tell if the non-window walls are as purple as in the living room. Nighttime Los Angeles glitters far down the hill. Closer, in the yard, the pool glows neon blue. The room is dark except for a light in the open kitchen, above the stove.

“Want some Jameson?” Adam asks. “Sit, I’ll get another glass.”

Tommy drops his jacket on the nearest piece of furniture and sits on the far edge of a long, low sofa that faces the windows. There’s an open bottle of Jameson and a half-filled tumbler on a long, low coffee table. Adam and his fucking highfalutin booze. What’s wrong with good old American beer?

Adam comes back with a tumbler of ice cubes. He sits down right next to Tommy, totally plastered down his side from shoulder to hip to knee. He pours whisky over the ice cubes and hands the tumbler to Tommy.

“That’s some view you got there,” Tommy says, taking a sip of the whisky.

Adam picks up his own glass. “It feels strange.”

“How come?”

Adam shrugs. “Maybe a bit lonely? I always wanted a house in the Hills and now I have it, but it was kind of fun and cozy down there in the flats.”

“The grass is greener,” Tommy agrees sagely. “Although actually the grass is greener up here, but now it feels like it’s greener there, but if you went back down there it wouldn’t be green. It would be cement-gray or dirt-brown.”

“My little philosopher,” Adam says, ruffling Tommy’s hair.

Tommy takes a big slug of the whisky and slouches lower on the couch. “Am I stupid?” he asks.

“What? No!” Adam sits up straighter and stares at Tommy. “Where did that come from?”

“I thought you were making fun of me.”

Adam looks appalled. “I wouldn’t do that. You think I was joking? I wasn’t. Maybe teasing a little. Teasing isn’t mean, is it?”

Tommy wants to get that guilty look off Adam’s face so he continues, “Some people think I’m too stupid for you.”

“Who? I’ll kick their asses.”

Tommy shrugs.

“I forbid you to listen to shit.”

Tommy grins to himself. Adam thinks he’s such a big bossy guy. He parks his feet on the coffee table and stares at Los Angeles. Adam’s arm is across the sofa behind him. In another moment that arm is looped around his shoulders. Adam said “snuggle” so Tommy tilts his head until it’s propped up on Adam’s shoulder.

He wakes abruptly – must have fallen asleep – when Adam takes the glass from his hand (“Let’s not spill”) and sets it aside. Tommy shakes his head like a dog. “What time izzit?” he grouses, rubbing roughly at one eye.

“Don’t poke your eye out,” Adam says. “Let’s go to bed.”

Tommy lets himself be hauled to his feet and dragged off to the bedroom. He wonders why he never realized before just _how_ bossy Adam is. Sure, Adam’s bossy, but it’s more than that, he’s always telling Tommy _do this, don’t do that, sit down, I forbid you_. Maybe it’s the supernova thing; the supernova is bright and sunny and confident and full of advice for all the little planets and meteors and comets and moons that revolve around it. Not that Tommy minds. At least Adam cares about him.

He flops down on his stomach on the gigantic bed. He doesn’t have what it takes to get under the covers. His creepers are pulled off and thunk to the floor, one after the other.

“Lift up,” Adam urges, reaching under him to unzip his jeans. He works them over Tommy’s hips and then shucks them off.

What’s Adam doing? Tommy is too tired for anything. He can’t even get his own pants off. But Adam just shoves him under the covers and crawls in a short while later. They’re in tees and underwear, so that tells him something. Adam spoons around him. Tommy’s face is buried in a super-soft down pillow and Adam is all warm length curled around him, tangling their feet together. He feels Adam pick up his left hand, holding it carefully in his own larger hand, massaging his fingers gently.

“I love your hands,” says Adam. “You have such beautiful long fingers. I love watching you play.”

Tommy mmmmphs, trying to sound noncommittal. He loves the little compliments but he never learned how to accept compliments graciously, no matter how hard his mom has tried to teach him.

“Strong, too,” continues Adam. “You have a lot of tension in your hands, you know?”

Tension?

“You keep your fists clenched a lot.”

Adam pulls the hand closer, and it’s a little painful given the odd angle. Adam kisses his palm and that’s okay, then. Feels so intimate, the dampness left behind by Adam’s mouth. He’s pretty sure Adam says something against his palm but he doesn’t hear any words, not out loud. Maybe it’s a secret Adam’s afraid to tell him. Not that Adam is afraid of things, or secretive. But then, he did keep the secret of his feelings for a long while, because Tommy sure as fuck never dreamed Adam seriously, for real, wanted him.

“No worries, baby, I’ll loosen you up. Eventually.”

Heh. Even sex gods need to work at it.

Adam lifts Tommy’s left arm high outside the covers. He’s probably staring at the tats. “How do you fall asleep with these horrors right here?” Adam asks. “One would think you’d be too scared to fall asleep.”

“Why do you think I turn out the lights?” Tommy mutters into the pillow. “If I can’t see it, it ain’t there.”

Adam snuffles a laugh and tucks Tommy’s arm back under the covers. A moment later the bedside lamp clicks off and the room is suffused in darkness. Adam’s arm comes around his middle and Tommy feels safe. He could get _so_ used to sleeping with Adam like this.

* * *

He has a dream, an awesome, amazing dream. Adam is blowing him. It’s the best blowjob he’s ever had which isn’t so surprising because, hey, it’s a dream. Even inside the dream he is thinking _wouldn’t it be cool to wake up and Adam’s really blowing me?_ and then he wakes up.

Adam isn’t blowing him.

Tommy’s still in his tee and underwear and _socks_ fer cryin’ out loud. He’s on his stomach, his face smushed into the pillow, and the air feels cold in the morning light. That’s because the covers are gone and Adam – well, Adam is kissing the backs of his knees, for some reason.

“The fuck?” Tommy mumbles, shoving at the pillow that’s suffocating him.

“Morning!” Adam says brightly. Tommy squirms, trying to turn over, but Adam plants his hands on the backs of his thighs and holds him in place. “What’s your hurry? Knott’s Berry Farm doesn’t open till nine.”

Tommy giggles. Seriously. _Giggles._ “Fuck you, we’re not going to Knott’s Berry Farm.”

“Oh good, I get more time with you.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck _you_.”

“You wish.”

“I do.” Adam kisses one thigh and moves his hands higher until his fingers are touching the edges of Tommy’s little-boy underwear. “Seriously, do you shop in the Boys Department?”

“Shut up. I didn’t ask to be born scrawny.”

“So not scrawny,” Adam says, his fingers sneaking under the edges. “Just slender and perfect.”

Tommy yanks the pillow from under his head and puts it on top of his head and holds it down. Adam’s fingers are inches from his asshole and if Adam’s working up to buttsex, Tommy’s not ready for that. On the other hand he definitely doesn’t want to stop Adam, because his own morning wood has turned into a full-on erection and Adam’s hands are on his sides now, a little ticklish and 100% incredible. It’s hard to breathe under the pillow but he’s not prepared to come back out. If it’s time to pop the ass cherry, well, Adam would know best about that and Tommy will deal. And yet. And yet. So not ready.

Adam’s hands squeeze his sides, then drift down to his hips and catch in the waistband of the underwear, which slides inexorably down along with Adam’s hands. “Hey, look, you do have an ass,” says Adam.

“Don’t,” Tommy says, muffled.

Adam kisses one cheek. “Do,” he says, biting the other.

“Ow!” Tommy yelps.

“Did that hurt?” Adam asks, surprised. He kisses it better.

“Not really,” Tommy allows.

Adam’s finger runs down his ass-crack and Tommy shudders. He wants and doesn’t want. But Adam doesn’t do more than that; he grasps Tommy by the middle and rolls him over, which puts the pillow back under Tommy’s head, his hands still clutching it, and Adam’s wide-awake face right in his field of view.

“Morning, darling,” Adam says, smiling.

Tommy flushes. He’s too exposed in spite of still being in his tee-shirt, with his underwear halfway down his thighs, and still wearing his fucking socks. He knows he must look ridiculous.

Adam doesn’t seem to think so, though, the way he’s staring into Tommy’s eyes. His eyes flick to Tommy’s cock and back up. “Is that for me?”

Tommy swallows and nods. No denying it.

Adam leans over him and kisses him. “I want to suck you. Can I do that?”

Tommy’s eyes fall closed and he makes an actual whimpering sound. Embarrassing, but once again Adam doesn’t seem to think so.

“I love you,” Adam says, kissing his mouth again. He moves down Tommy’s body, shoving the tee up and out of the way, licking one tiny nipple and kissing the other, a hand snugged beneath Tommy’s back, stroking his spine to make Tommy arch up. He sucks on one nipple until it’s tingling, pinches the other till it almost hurts. Moves down further, rubbing morning stubble on Tommy’s prominent ribs, kissing the join of his legs, his thighs. “I don’t think we need this anymore,” Adam says quietly, pulling the underwear down Tommy’s legs, past the socks, and off. He pushes one leg open and nuzzles the insides of Tommy’s thighs.

It’s the most amazing feeling. Tommy desperately wants Adam’s beautiful mouth on his cock, but the soft kisses that Adam is peppering all over his thighs, closer all the time to the main event, are making Tommy melt. The kisses stop and Tommy opens one eye to look down his body. Adam is hovering there, gazing at Tommy from under smoky lashes, a sexy smirk on his lips, clearly waiting for him to look. Now that Tommy’s watching, Adam kisses the tip of his cock, the bastard. Tommy swallows hard. Adam’s tongue runs from the base to the tip in one long lick and Tommy can’t watch anymore, he’ll come if he does. He’s already suffered one incident of premature you-know-what, his ego can’t take two. So he squeezes his eyes closed and concentrates on breathing in and out.

“You don’t have to be quiet,” Adam says, taking Tommy in his mouth and oh shit, oh shit. Adam sucks and strokes and even bites a tiny bit. He pulls off with a wet _pop_ sound that would be funny in other circumstances. “You have the sweetest little cock, Tommy.”

Little? Little! Tommy kind of hates the fucking dominatrix-er-domino-man-whatthefuckever right now. It’s called _proportional_ , he thinks heatedly. He reaches down blindly with one hand and finds Adam’s hair, pulls on it and tries to push him back down.

“Are you trying to tell me something, Tommy?” Adam snarks.

“Jesus _fuck,_ ” Tommy mutters. He’s supposed to talk? Doesn’t Adam know he’s a quiet man? The strong silent type. Like, maybe, John Wayne even. Would John Wayne ask politely for a blowjob? Don’t think so. Adam just waits, pushing against Tommy’s grip, not letting his head be shoved down.

John Wayne would _demand_ a blowjob, Tommy decides. “Suck my cock, cowboy,” he says, arching up, trying to be funny, trying to get Adam’s mouth back on his dick.

“Oh, since you ask so nicely, okay then,” Adam says, and it’s not much of a surprise to Tommy that Adam gets the whole thing in his mouth in one smooth slide.

“Fuck,” he pants. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

Adam has one hand under Tommy’s back, the other on one of Tommy’s calves, holding his legs open. He sucks and licks, humming happily.

Sex really is best when it’s love. The thought ricochets around Tommy’s brain. It doesn’t matter at all that Adam’s a guy, just that he’s Adam. That’s more than Tommy ever thought he’d get. One hand wringing the life out of the pillow, the other still clutching Adam’s hair, he feels his body going taut in that amazing way that means he’s going to get to come. “Okay, stop,” he gasps, trying to pull Adam off. Adam pays no mind, naturally. Tommy looks down and pulls again. “Stop!”

Adam’s eyes open wide and startled even while he’s mid-suck, it’s kind of funny and massively distracting how Tommy can read the _whyever the fuck?_ right in his eyes.

Tommy’s head drops back to the bed with a thump and he pulls the pillow over his face to drown his whimpering. The inevitability had ramped down a few notches when he tried to stop Adam, but now it’s back and ferocious, Adam’s hands and arms clenching him tightly and oh god, just the thought of Adam’s mouth on him – sparks sizzle behind his eyelids and he comes as hard as he has in a long time.

After moments or hours or years, he comes back down to Earth and realizes that Adam is back to kissing the insides of his thighs. Once Adam notices that Tommy’s checked back in, he bites a chunk of thigh hard enough to leave teeth marks.

“You need more meat on your bones,” he says, crawling up Tommy’s body and getting all octopussy with long arms banding around him and squishing hard. “My sweet pretty kitty,” he coos, sticking his tongue in Tommy’s ear.

“Wait, what about—“ Tommy reaches down but Adam’s dressed and what’s more he doesn’t feel a boner. Weird. “You didn’t…?” He thinks maybe it’s time to offer up his ass.

“I spanked it in the shower, I’m _good_ ,” Adam laughs, smacking a kiss on Tommy’s cheek.

“Why would you do that?” Tommy asks, feeling mystified. And maybe a little hurt.

“Baby,” says Adam, turning tender and stroking Tommy’s bangs out of his eyes. “You seem like you need more time to get used to, you know. This. It’s a lot, isn’t it?”

Tommy’s hand finds the covers and pulls them up. He drags his tee down. He just had sex in his socks, for fuck’s sake. He can’t believe Adam doesn’t want him after all.

“No, baby, no,” Adam says hurriedly. “I’m fine. I want it to be good for you. I want to keep you and not have it be too overwhelming at first. I’m like a train wreck waiting to happen; I know that. Don’t want to railroad over you.”

“’M not a fainting virgin,” Tommy says, turning his eyes to stare out the window.

Adam touches his cheek, doesn’t try to turn Tommy to face him again. “The boy in high school… you had sex, right?”

“Kissing and handjobs,” Tommy says quietly.

“No one since then? Boy, I mean.”

“Not till you.”

Adam lets out a thoughtful breath and tucks the covers around them both more snugly. “When did you know how you felt? About me?”

Tommy thinks. If he’s going to be honest, it was that first grab-and-snog at the AMA performance. He’d developed a cute little crush on Adam the instant he auditioned and dared to think he’d caught a twinkle in Adam’s eye, not surprising given how later he admitted Tommy was his type. But that kiss, it just amazed him that Adam would pick him out of a lineup of hot dancers and musicians and kiss him instead of one of them. It had been bad enough just being on that scaffolding and being afraid of falling. Only later did he realize he’d fallen in a totally different way. After that he spent lonely nights thinking dark thoughts about how Adam was just being controversial or something. Every time he got to play with the band, every time he could go somewhere with the troupe and hang out with Adam, felt special and like it would end any second. Even the Glam Nation tour didn’t make him feel all that confident, although kiss by kiss Adam started convincing him that it was more than just for the fans' entertainment.

His head hurts. His heart hurts. He knows he’s going to fuck this all up spectacularly. So he decides he might as well go with honesty. “When I met you. When we talked at the audition. I felt like I could talk to you.”

“Me, too,” Adam says. “I would have asked you out right then if people weren’t in the room.”

“Really?”

“Really. I just didn’t think I could, you know?”

 _All this time, oh my god, all this time._

“We can do this slowly,” Adam adds. “I’m patient. Don’t roll your eyes, you know I am. Why don’t you get cleaned up and dressed while I make breakfast?”

Tommy breathes a sigh of relief that Adam isn’t going to discuss shit any longer. He wants Adam to leave the room so he can get out of bed and find clothes and not be seen half-naked in his socks.

* * *

They go to the beach instead of Knott’s Berry Farm, just walking along the sand. It’s too cold to swim without a wetsuit. In the afternoon Adam has to see another producer and Tommy goes off to practice with Monte, but he’s back at night with a stack of DVDs because Adam oh-so-kindly agreed to watch some westerns. Tommy regrets that as they are watching “Hondo” because Adam can’t keep quiet for long.

“Those goats look like they’re straight out of central casting,” he says when the boy is feeding the stock.

“Shut up,” says Tommy.

Later, Adam says, “The plot line beggars belief.”

“Shut _up,_ ” says Tommy.

Adam watches for a pretty long while in silence, sharing air-popped popcorn. “Why do you like this movie so much?” he asks near the end.

“He tells the truth and he keeps his word. He takes care of people he loves.”

“That’s sweet,” says Adam, tossing a piece of popcorn in his mouth and shutting up for the remainder of the movie.

* * *

On Thursday he goes home in the morning because he needs to be alone and think and stuff. Adam has made dinner reservations at a nice restaurant. It’s date time.

He talks with Jillian and gives up far too many details. He makes sure his mom is okay and checks in with his sister.

He thinks about asking Jillian for Skyler’s phone number. Skyler lives in Encinitas now. Tommy thinks maybe it’s time for an apology or closure or something.

Right about when Adam’s supposed to pick him up, Tommy has his head under the Plapps’ kitchen sink. Adam must have found the note on his apartment door because old Mr. Plapp brings him into their kitchen.

“Is that you, Tommy?” Adam asks.

“Does it look like my shoes?” asks Tommy’s voice.

“What are you doing?”

“The sink has a leak. Did you meet the Plapps?”

“Yes,” says Adam. “How come you know how to do all this stuff?”

“My dad showed me how.”

Mr. Plapp chimes in with, “I know how to do it but my knees don’t bend so well any longer.”

“I don’t mind doing it,” says Tommy.

Adam crouches down and looks at Tommy.

“Here,” says Tommy, “hold the flashlight and aim it at the front of the trap." He’s got a big wrench in his hands.

Adam picks up the flashlight, which was propped against the cabinet wall. “Oh shit!” he yelps. “Excuse my French, Mr. Plapp. Tommy, there’s a giant spider in here!”

“Where?” asks Tommy, turning his head towards the corner that the flashlight is illuminating. “That’s not giant.”

“It’s pretty big,” Adam says nervously.

“It’s minding its own business. Back to the trap, I’m almost done tightening the slip nut.”

Once it’s finished and Adam hauls Tommy out and up, both Plapps thank Tommy profusely. He shakes his hair out of his eyes. “No problem.”

“You’re a sweet boy,” Mrs. Plapp says.

For a moment Tommy’s afraid she’ll pinch his cheek.

Adam is grinning at Tommy over the elderly couple’s shoulders.

Upstairs, Tommy has to change what he’s wearing. “I was ready but now everything’s kind of dirty,” he calls from the bedroom. He comes out to the living room area in dark-wash jeans and a soft black long-sleeved sweater. “Sorry, those were my only nice pants,” he says.

“You look gorgeous,” Adam tells him. “Ready?”

Tommy grabs his wallet, keys and jacket. He slinks over to Adam where he’s standing by the front door. They look at each other for a quiet moment. Tommy lifts his face and Adam leans down to kiss him.

“I’m ready,” says Tommy.


	7. Chapter 7

“I’m ready,” says Tommy. But he’s not. Not really. Not yet.

They have plenty of fun at the restaurant. Tommy can’t get a burger but he can have a steak and he eats the whole thing and even the vegetables that come with it. He lets Adam pick out the wine because Adam is pretentious like that, knowing about wineries and vintages and shit. They enjoy snickering meanly about the paparazzi who have the entrance staked out. There’s bigger fry here than Adam, and the paps look downright bored to see him with nothing more interesting than his fey little band member. It’s just a plain old ordinary Thursday night, nothing special.

Following dinner, Tommy agrees to go to “The King’s Speech” because after all Adam sat through two John Wayne movies for him. He even kind of likes the movie, in spite of the frou-frou accents, because he can understand how the king dude was shy about public speaking.

He wants to go home with Adam and sleep in the big bed again even though it would include being half-smothered to death by Adam, who seriously is a sleepgrabber, but he thinks it’s more important to have some space, both literal and figurative. Adam’s giving off a weird vibe that Tommy can’t figure out. Since the one-sided sex the other morning, Adam hasn’t started anything in the horizontal tango department. After the John Wayne movies they had a long make-out session but nothing more. Tommy’s pretty sure that Adam still wants to have sex with him, but he seems unsure of something. Tommy definitely wants it but the way their relationship has developed – right from the start – is that Adam beckons and Tommy comes over to him. He trails after Adam like a lost puppy. That sounds kind of pathetic but really, this is how Tommy is. He goes into hero-worship mode and the few people he picks to feel that way about have always been happy to have him there with them. Like Monte, like Adam, they understand that Tommy has a quiet personality, especially in crowds, and he doesn’t doubt that they care about him and want him there, even if outsiders see it some other way. He’s not that great at initiating things, that’s all. Especially with Adam, it’s branded into his bones by now and he’s not sure how to change it.

So he thinks it might be better to spend some time alone, pondering things.

Adam insists on walking him from the car to his apartment door.

“I need tomorrow for Monte and music and shit,” Tommy says quietly, flipping his hair aside, key in the lock, while Adam leans possessively on the doorjamb.

“When’s the next gig?” asks Adam.

“Next week, maybe Monday, Monte’s working it out.”

“I want to come. Just be in the audience and watch you guys play. It would be so amazing.”

“Pretty sure there would be a riot.”

“I’ll go in disguise.”

Tommy flashes on Adam in drag. Oh lord.

“Say yes,” Adam says.

“If I see you looking at me I’ll crack up and then fuck up.”

Adam laughs out loud.

Tommy puts a finger to his lips.

“Oh, right, sorry,” says Adam as he reaches under Tommy’s leather jacket to find the soft thin sweater and rub it against Tommy’s skin. “Ooh, cashmere.”

Tommy looks down at his chest. “It is?” He has no clue; his sister gave it to him for Christmas. Said he needed something other than Metallica and anti-religion tees. The feel of the soft wool against his naked skin is ticklish and erotic all at once.

“I think we need to talk,” Adam says.

Yeah, not gonna happen even with that weird vibe pulsing fiercely in the air between them. To forestall any more words, Tommy lets go of the door handle and aims for a hug, which Adam readily gives, snuggling Tommy against his chest, allowing Tommy to hide his face.

“You fit right here, you know? Better than anyone ever has.” Adam’s hands are sneaking under the sweater, chill on his back. “Am I making you cold? Bet I am,” Adam chuckles softly.

Tommy loves that sound, and also the smell of Adam, and also the kiss that Adam drops on top of his head.

“You’re mine on Saturday, got it?” Adam asks.

Tommy nods.

Adam relinquishes his hold and pushes Tommy gently towards the door. “I’ll be thinking of you every two minutes, you know that, right? Love to Monte and Lisa and the kids.”

“Okay, sure.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Letting me love you.”

Tommy nearly caves in. Monte and music can go to hell, sort of. “Adam, I, um, you know,” he tries. His tongue gets stuck in the words.

“Don’t worry, love.” Adam leans down and gives him a sweet kiss, then turns and clatters down the steps.

Tommy’s left with an impression of something sad in Adam’s face.

* * *

Mrs. Porter is sitting on the bench in the courtyard when Tommy heads out for Monte’s place.

“Good morning, Tommy,” she says with a smile.

“Hi, Mrs. Porter.” Tommy sets down his guitar case and sits next to her for a moment. Walter hops up between them and Tommy ruffles his fur.

It’s a gorgeous morning, dewy and soft-focus. The courtyard has a tree in the middle and plants in pots everywhere. It reminds him of the lemon tree in the yard when he was growing up a few miles from here in a crappy rented house. The residents take turns caring for the courtyard plantings. This is one reason Tommy really loves these old apartment buildings – they’re part of the city’s past, full of history and also green growing things. Which Tommy loves more than he usually admits. If he told his friends that he likes trees, he’d never hear the end of it. But Mrs. Porter and the Plapps and the Garcias and that strange, kind of smelly old dude who lives in the dark corner apartment won’t judge him for it.

“Are you going to meet your friend?”

Tommy hates to admit it but he’s startled. “Which friend?”

“The tall handsome man with black hair.”

“Oh. No.” She’s more observant than he’d given her credit for. “I’m going to practice for a club date next week.” He pats the Gibson’s case. “Adam isn’t involved with that.” Although he thinks it would be nice to have Adam in the audience, no joke. Drag or not. It would be worth a few fucked-up chords.

“Is he your special friend?” Mrs. Porter asks kindly.

Wow. Way more observant. “Um, no, I mean, yeah. Maybe. Not like that, or. He’s pretty special.” Tommy grimaces inside. He handled that badly. Walter circles and settles next to him so he focuses on the cat to avoid Mrs. Porter’s gaze.

“No need to say anything more, Tommy. I’m very happy for you.” She pats his hand where it rests on Walter’s back.

“Did you,” Tommy starts, stops. “Mr. Porter?”

“He passed a few years ago. Two days before our forty-ninth wedding anniversary, he had a heart attack.”

“I’m sorry,” Tommy mumbles. He knows what it’s like being on the receiving end of the _sorry for your loss_ comments, and it sucks.

“Thank you, dear. I wish he could be here still, but that’s life.”

“Forty-nine years is a long time.” _Longer than my whole life,_ Tommy thinks. It would be amazing to have the same person to love for more than all the years he’s been alive.

“And every year of it was wonderful,” she says. She brushes at her housedress. “Don’t let Walter and me keep you from your guitar practice.”

* * *

Lisa feeds him early lunch and then sends him and Monte to the garage with a bag of potato chips and IBC root beers. Monte’s pretty sure it will be Monday for the gig.

His phone text-beeps in the middle of a song; he ignores it but once the song is done he takes a peek. It’s Adam, just some middle-of-the-day nonsense about what he’s doing, but it makes Tommy smile.

“How’s life?” Monte asks, hunching over his guitar and watching Tommy.

Tommy nods thoughtfully. “Good.”

“You’ve been spending time with Adam.”

Tommy tucks his hair behind his ear. He tries to look nonchalant. “Yeah. I have.”

“Something you need to tell Uncle Monte?”

Tommy sighs. “Did he say something to you?”

Monte shrugs and smiles.

“Are you mad at me?” asks Tommy.

“Course not. So long as everyone’s happy, I’m happy. In fact I’m thrilled.”

Tommy plucks at the Gibson’s strings.

“So things are good?” Monte prods.

“Jeez, Monte, why don’t you just ask flat out?” Tommy says, but he’s starting to laugh. “Do you do this with all the guys he, uh… oh.” Tommy stops.

Monte reaches over and claps Tommy’s shoulder. “I don’t know those other guys very well. You, I know. I care about you. And about Adam. That’s pretty much it.”

“Thanks,” says Tommy. “Do you think it’s weird?”

“How?”

“Me, doing this. I’m just not, you know. It’s different.”

“Only you know. So long as it’s good.”

“You don’t think it’s weird?”

“Nope. There’s an exception to everything and I think maybe Adam is yours.”

“You talked with him,” says Tommy. “About me. Fuck.”

“Adam’s a talker. He needs to talk things out.”

“I hope he didn’t say anything bad,” Tommy tries to joke.

“Nope. All good,” Monte assures him. “Just know that if you need to talk, you should do it. Don’t keep it in if you’re thinking it feels weird. You’re pretty deep, man, you play it close to the vest. Let it out in the fresh air now and then.”

Tommy laughs, this time a nervous laugh. If it were anyone but Monte, he would have wanted to run away fast.

“Sometimes, when it’s about love, you have to be more open. You have to give more of yourself. You can’t be so wrapped up inside, here,” Monte taps his finger on Tommy’s forehead, “no matter how much you want to be. That make sense?”

Tommy nods, choking down any words that might want to jump out of his throat.

“It’s okay to keep some secrets because nobody’s perfect, and everybody has a right to privacy, but you gotta give a bit more of yourself than maybe you’ve been willing in the past.”

What the fuck is Monte trying to tell him? Tommy’s head is spinning. “But _you_ don’t need to know more than you know about me, do you?” he asks.

“Well,” Monte says, grinning, “you’re a very good-looking man – even I can see that and if I couldn’t, the women at our gigs have made it pretty obvious. But I don’t want in your pants.”

Tommy nearly gags with laughter on that thought. He simply cannot picture Monte and a guy together. Monte is ramrod straight.

“Should I take that laughter personally?”

“Probably. But then I’m hurt you don’t want in my pants.”

Monte sighs like it’s killing him to put up with the kids these days. “We good?” He holds out his fist.

Tommy bumps it. “Bro for life,” he says.

That’s enough with the talking, it’s time for some rock and roll. There’s no one like Monte for playing gigs and watching bands. They go out for dinner and then head to Spaceland. There are three local bands playing, two of them pretty decent and one not so much. Monte introduces Tommy to several of the musicians afterwards. They seem pretty impressed that Tommy plays with Monte and also with Adam. So that’s nice. Tommy gets halfway sloshed, but they stay out long enough that the buzz dies down enough to drive home safely.

He sleeps in late.

In the morning he turns on his cell and finds ten text messages from Adam.

 _Morning sunshine!_

 _What’s up buttercup?_

 _Come help me get ready for the housewarming partay_

 _R U awake_

 _Tommy Joe!_

 _i just called to say… i love you_

 _Stop by Trader Schmo’s and pick up orange n razzberry stix_

 _And beer_

 _lots of beer_

 _will reimburse_

Well, that takes care of his day. Tommy showers and shaves and gets dressed. His first stop is McDonald’s for lunch on-the-run, then he dutifully picks up everything Adam requested and lots more.

He has to use the key to get in because Adam doesn’t answer the door. It’s not easy because he’s trying to carry everything in at once – four six-packs and three grocery bags. He sets his stash on the kitchen island and goes into the yard, where Adam is stringing up Chinese lanterns on a cord of mini-lights that’s tangled in the beams of the roof overhang.

“Looks cool,” says Tommy.

Adam jumps off the step stool and envelopes Tommy in a vise-like grip, lifting him off his feet. “Hi, honey,” he says, letting Tommy back down and kissing him hello. Tommy blushes and leans up to kiss Adam’s neck right underneath his ear.

“Monte’s going to do the grilling,” says Adam. “He told me it’s a man’s job. Ha. I can just be the host.” There’s a fancy stainless steel grill and a round brick fire pit. This is a total party house and party yard.

“What should I do?” asks Tommy.

Adam puts an arm around Tommy’s shoulders and squeezes. “You’re my number one assistant, your only job is to stick with me and enjoy yourself. But until party time, you can help me make a salad.”

Tommy needs some instruction but once he’s chopping carrots and bell peppers, he gets into the swing of it. He and Adam move around the kitchen together, getting paper plates and plastic cups out and stacking them on the island, stowing beer in the refrigerator to make sure it stays cold. Now and then Adam catches Tommy’s hand for a small squeeze. It’s friendly and domestic and amazing. At one point while Adam’s out of the room, he checks the freezer and finds it well-stocked with ice cream. Probably for the party.

Allison shows up in the late afternoon to help Adam set up a play area for children in the big room near the kitchen. Tommy one-arms a hug because he’s in the middle of making Mama Lambert’s famous guacamole in the food processor. “Hey, girl, looking good.”

“You, too, but your hair’s getting long. Damn, look at the size of that TV.”

“What can I say?” says Adam. “Size queen.”

“Knew it,” Tommy mutters.

Once things are nicely set up and the sun is lowering in the sky and Adam is busy making a mix-tape for the party on iTunes, Allison gets a pair of sharp scissors from the kitchen and leads Tommy to the powder room. He sits on the closed toilet seat while she trims the long hair carefully.

“It needs to follow the line of your jaw,” she says. “This is how it looks best.”

“Don’t mess it up.”

“Hey, my cousin runs a salon, I know what I’m doing! Look.” She motions for him to stand up and look in the mirror over the sink. “See? Wow, girls would kill for your bone structure.”

Tommy doesn’t see it. It’s a face, with hair hanging down.

“Want me to curl it? I bet Adam’s got a curling iron somewhere.”

Tommy laughs. “No thanks, I’ll save that look for concerts.”

“Without makeup you look like a kid.”

“Yeah, well, you look like a kid all the time, baby girl.”

Allison looks at him expectantly. “And?”

“Okay, a pretty baby girl, happy now?” Tommy says. _Girls._

The doorbell rings.

“Let’s go help!” cries Allison, bouncing out of the room.

* * *

Everybody comes, from kids on the carpet playing with trucks and dolls to Adam’s parents and brother. Tommy doesn’t count but it seems as though there are sixty people there, at least. A 5000-piece puzzle is spread out on the dining room table so that anybody can stop by and work on it awhile. The music is heavy on Beach Boys and Eddie Cochran. Hamburgers and veggie burgers and hot dogs and corn on the cob cook on the grill as the sun sets. The fire pit is lit up and the lanterns sway in the evening breeze, looking vaguely magical. Children run around the yard, playing tag and shrieking.

“Keep ‘em away from the pool,” Monte admonishes. He’s wearing a You Have to Kiss a Lot of Frogs apron so Taylor and Terrance and Cam all kiss him on the cheek while Lisa takes pictures.

Lisa and Monte’s daughters have brought a box of Barbie dolls, so for nearly half an hour Tommy ends up on the granite-colored shag rug with them, pretending the dolls are secret agents. Monte comes in at one point, grill duties having shifted to Neil. Tommy’s on his second margarita and Monte’s on his second gin-and-tonic, so neither notices when the girls move away to play with Lincoln logs and it’s just the two of them, Monte and Tommy playing Glamberts with the dolls. It’s a good thing that they aren’t caught by Neil or Jillian or someone who’d never let them live it down.

Headache Blackout shows up all together, like they came in their band van. They’re stoked because they did make some new fans the other night. Mr. Rhythm eats five hamburgers and drinks several beers which don’t seem to have any effect on him. He appoints himself as pool guard and lets the children poke at his big round belly and explore the tats all over his beefy arms. Jillian and Heath are in a corner of the patio, getting to know the Blackout’s guitarist.

Someone turns on the giant television and Tommy finds himself sitting on the sofa between Monte and Neil, with Isaac and the Blackout’s front man on the floor at their feet, all beer’d up, watching a football game. It’s still sort of light outside where Adam is. Tommy waits patiently for Adam to notice what’s going on. It’s takes awhile but finally Adam looks over, through the big glass windows, and sees the manly dudes lined up, their faces illuminated by the glow of the TV. Adam’s eyes go comically wide and in another moment he’s inside the room, hollering, “No football on _my_ TV!” There’s a tussle and a lot of laughing as Adam tries to drag Neil from the sofa. Adam loses due to sheer numbers and the fact that he can’t stop laughing, so eventually he goes off to make drinks – alcoholic and non – and flit around, making sure everyone is having a great time.

Tommy isn’t all that interested in the game, so he trails Adam, cup in hand. They’ve been sharing private smiles and small touches throughout the party. No one notices except maybe Monte and of course Jillian. Adam touches his elbow at one point and leans in. “You’re getting a little plastered, honey.” He nods at the margarita in Tommy’s hand.

Nope, not plastered. Just the right amount, a pleasant buzz. It’s his fourth or something, not that he’s counting although perhaps Adam is. Tommy’s feeling loose and groovy, the world looks pretty. Adam’s prettier. He can’t imagine how he got to have Adam. He’s having a good time with his friends and Adam’s friends and everyone but he’s also waiting for when they’re all gone and he can have Adam to himself. He’s been getting a lot of Adam to himself these days but he wants more, he’s selfish like that. He can admit it. Adam’s long, lean thighs look good in tight jeans, and so does his ass. And if there’s a tiny muffin top, Tommy just finds that cute.

“Want you,” he says in a small voice, mashing his face against Adam’s shoulder.

Adam looks around quickly.

“Is that wrong?” asks Tommy, worriedly.

Adam shakes his head. “No, just, my family’s here and lots of little kids. I don’t want to corrupt anyone, Neil least of all.”

“Okay, I’ll be careful,” Tommy says, walking away in a not-very-straight line. He heads outside where some people are still hanging around the fire, jackets on. The last of the children are being shooed indoors since it’s fully dark.

Mr. Rhythm saunters over to Tommy and belches in his face. “I love you, man,” he says, wrapping Tommy in his arms. Mr. Rhythm is waaaaaay bigger than Adam, but he smells like beer and he’s straight. Straighter than Tommy, anyway. So.

“Fuck off,” Tommy giggles, squirming out of the hug.

“You’re my cuddle bug,” Mr. Rhythm argues.

“No’m not,” says Tommy.

Neil steps up. “Dude, you are huge.”

Mr. Rhythm winks. “That I am.”

“You could throw Tommy over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes,” Neil says.

“Shut up, fucker,” Tommy laughs, accidentally spilling the rest of his drink on the grass. “Oh shit.”

“Give me that,” says Neil, taking the cup. “You’re hopeless.”

Tommy laughs so hard that he stumbles and his ass hits the ground.

“Total lightweight,” Neil says, shaking his head sadly.

Mr. Rhythm crouches and grasps Tommy’s ankles.

“Nooooo!” Tommy cries, the drawn-out sound fading into more giggles.

Mr. Rhythm stands up, lifting Tommy upside-down by his ankles, so high in the air that Tommy can’t even touch the ground, although he’s stretching his arms as much as he can. Everything in his pockets starts falling out, keys, change, a stick of gum, random guitar picks, and one awkward condom package. The blood is pounding in his skull but even so he can’t help snickering to himself. His shirt is slipping down and he feels cold air on his nipples. Apparently he’s the general entertainment right now, because he hears catcalls and laughter and suggestions that Mr. Rhythm drop him on his head (that was Neil, who will pay for it later).

Then the patio door opens and Adam’s voice booms out. “Hey, put my boyfriend down!”

All the talking and laughing stop, just like in a movie where somebody says something shocking.

“Whatever you say, man,” Mr. Rhythm says agreeably, dumping Tommy in an undignified heap on the grass.

 _Ouch._ Tommy opens his eyes and sees Adam’s face hovering over him. “Your brother is a bitch,” Tommy says. “Just want you to know that.”

Adam hauls him to his feet. “We’re going inside, right this second. Hold off, Mom, let me put Tommy to bed first.”

To bed. That sounds _awesome_. Adam’s big comfy bed, with big comfy Adam in it, too. Naturally he falls asleep instantly and wakes up a groggy mess well after midnight. The pandemonium from earlier has quieted. He goes to the bathroom to piss and look at his bleary-eyed face in the mirror. Yoicks.

The party’s down to Adam’s family and Monte. Lisa must have taken the girls home while he was asleep. They’re sitting around the dining table, talking and drinking and pretending to work on the puzzle.

“How are you feeling, Tommy?” Leila asks.

Tommy slips into the chair next to her. “Okay. I had a nap, I think.”

“You needed it,” she says. “I’m going to make you some tea.”

“He won’t drink it,” says Adam, with a fond smile.

At least Adam’s still smiling. Something feels off, though.

“So Adam tells us you’re a twosome,” Eber throws in awkwardly.

Oh, that. Tommy tries to look like he didn’t hear anything. He knows (from the mirror) that he looks pretty crappy right now and they might believe he’s still too out of it to track their conversation.

“You told everyone you’re straight,” Eber continues, pouring himself a shot from the open bourbon bottle and downing it fast.

Tommy kind of wants some bourbon himself right now. He never said he was straight; Adam said that.

“It’s not acceptable in my book to fool around with guys just out of curiosity,” Eber adds. “It took my son a long time to feel comfortable being himself. So I would like to know what you think you’re doing.”

“Not now, Dad,” says Neil.

Thank you, Neil. Tommy decides he won’t make Neil pay after all. He stares down at the table, wishing he’d stayed in the bedroom.

“Time to head out,” Neil continues. “Dad, you coming?”

“I just like to know what’s happening in my kids’ lives,” Eber says.

“Dad,” Neil says firmly.

Chairs scrape back. Adam walks them down the hall to the door, where Tommy can still sort of hear them, the three Lambert men talking quietly yet urgently amongst themselves.

“It’s time for me to go home, too,” says Leila. “I’m too old to stay up this late.” She gets up. Tommy hears Monte stand to give her a hug. She stops next to Tommy and gives him a kiss on the exposed cheek. “You’ve got my vote, Tommy. For the record.”

“Thank you,” Tommy says because what else do you say to that. He stands up abruptly and gives her a quick hug. “It’s not, um, I’m not… you know.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” she says. “Adam’s a grownup and he can make his own decisions. He made a good one as far as I can see.”

When Adam’s family are all gone, Adam comes back and sits next to Tommy in Leila’s chair. “You okay?” he asks, leaning over to try to catch a glimpse of Tommy’s face.

“I feel kind of shitty,” Tommy says. “My stomach.”

“You didn’t eat enough,” says Monte, back in his chair, leaning his chin on his hands. “Normally you’d have a couple of burgers minimum. I didn’t see you visiting the grill.”

“I was having fun, I guess I got distracted.”

“You’ll be fine in the morning.”

“Yeah.”

“Want me to drop you off at your place?”

Tommy sits up straighter. “Um?”

“No,” says Adam decisively.

“You sure?” asks Monte. “Tommy?”

“I’ll stay.”

“Okay, then.” Monte gets up. “I’ll let myself out,” he tells Adam. Tommy hears them back-patting, then feels Monte’s hand on his shoulder. “Night, bro.”

“Bro,” says Tommy, the corners of his mouth turning up into a tiny smile. “You’re the best.”

The front door closes and the lock snicks into place. Adam moves around the house, turning out lights. He stops next to Tommy. “Bed?”

Tommy is feeling rather awake now but he gets up and lets Adam take his hand and lead him to the master bedroom.

“Need to use the bathroom?”

Tommy shakes his head.

“Give me a minute,” Adam says.

Tommy can hear Adam’s electric toothbrush through the door. The toilet flushes. When he comes back out, Tommy is under the covers and Adam definitely notices the discarded clothing on the floor.

Was that the wrong thing to do, get naked? Tommy’s still not sober. But he thought Adam would want that. Tommy’s ready. For anything and everything. Adam’s waited long enough. Tommy decided that about two hours ago.

But Adam’s just standing next to the bed, still wearing clothes. “I think I owe you an apology.”

“Everyone knows now, huh?”

“They _do_. Do you mind?”

“No.” And he doesn’t really. He’s wanted Adam a long time and that sounded like some kind of declaration out in the yard. It’s not like it could stay a secret.

“I should have asked you first,” Adam says.

“I don’t care.”

Adam clicks off the bedside lamp, throwing the room into darkness. Then Adam walks away. _Walks away._

“Where do you think you’re going?” Tommy grumbles.

Adam pauses in the doorway. “I’m going to sleep in the guest bedroom.”

“What? Why?”

“Honey, you’re still at least two sheets to the wind.”

“So what?”

“I’m not going to take advantage of that.”

Tommy is so dumbfounded that he can’t answer, and Adam apparently takes that to mean it’s fine.

“Night, baby, I’ll see you in the morning,” he says and then he’s gone.

Tommy lies there for what seems like hours, his mind on non-stop repeat, trying to figure out where he went wrong. Did he take too long to put out? Should he have professed undying love days or weeks ago? Should he have kissed Adam months ago? Should he have realized what he was feeling back in Australia or Japan or somewhere and just jumped into Adam’s lap?

Or is it Adam’s fault for misreading Tommy? What is the guy’s fucking damage? How could Adam not see how he was confusing Tommy with all the touches and kisses and hugs and whispered endearments? Is Tommy expected to be a fucking saint?

Or – here comes the devil’s advocate voice again – maybe it’s his own damn fault after all. Did he forget to say how he felt out loud? Maybe if he’d said it out loud – fuck me, Amadeus – Adam would have stayed. Doesn’t Adam understand how hard it’s been for Tommy? Tommy’s a guy, he’s got a Y chromosome, he doesn’t do chick-flick-touchy-feely, he’s strong and silent. Okay, a pygmy version of the Duke, but still.

Now Tommy’s getting _mad_. How _dare_ Adam do that? How dare he walk away when Tommy is all ready and everything. He sits up in the dark. Fuck Adam. He climbs out of bed, wrapping the sheet around his waist. There’s enough light to see his way out of the door and into the hallway, the sheet trailing after him like a princess-y train. What with sheets that fit such a big bed, it’s no wonder there’s enough fabric here to open a store. He finds the proper guest bedroom because the door’s open and Adam is snoring faintly. What, the bastard fell asleep?

Tommy marches into the room as loudly as he can in bare feet and wrapped in 600-count linen sheets, which get caught under the door and there’s a ripping sound. Oops. Oh well, Adam can afford new sheets.

He glares at the sleeping Adam. “Wake up, fucker!” he shouts.

Adam shifts and snuffles. It’s so damn cute Tommy can’t stand it.

“Wake the fuck up!” he repeats, jostling Adam’s shoulder.

Adam blinks his eyes open. “Huh? Tommy?”

“No, I’m a burglar.”

“What are you doing up?”

“Up? I was never down. I can’t fall asleep. Unlike some people.”

“But, sweetie –“

“You told Monte that I should stay and then you make me sleep alone.”

Adam sits up, still bleary with sleep. “You weren’t sober.”

“I’m still not. Not totally anyway.” Now that he thinks about it, a drink would be useful right about now. What’s the charm in sobriety when one is expecting a nice solid bumfuck? It seems like a little booze in the system would be a good thing in that situation. “Maybe you should have let him take me home,” he adds darkly.

“I wanted to take care of you.”

“That’s what I was hoping for.”

“Not in that way, silly.”

“Yeah, that way. I’m not going back to the other room so shove over.”

This bed’s not as big as Adam’s, but it’s still big enough for the both of them. Adam shuffles over a bit and Tommy plops beside him on the mattress.

Adam sighs deeply. “I want you here. It’s only that I thought you should have space, not feel like you have to do anything.”

“When did I ever say someone was forcing me?”

Adam turns his head to Tommy. His eyes glitter in the dark. “C’mere,” he says, and Tommy goes readily. Adam grabs him and tugs him in close, wrapping him up in long arms and legs, just how Tommy likes it. “It’s just, it’s.” Adam seems oddly tongue-tied. “I’m beginning to think you don’t want this.”

Tommy freezes. Did he just _lose_ Adam? “You’re wrong,” he says, rough-edged, scared.

“Am I? It’s okay if you don’t.”

“You’re wrong. Why else do you think I get in your bed, geez.”

Adam sighs. “I’m in love with you, baby, I can’t help myself. I’m selfish; I’ll take everything you have to give, or even more than you want to give.”

“Jesus, what the fuck do I have to do to convince you. I’m not faking orgasms, I want you. Right now.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to sleep with me. I’ll love you no matter what.”

What the ever-loving fuck? Is Adam trying to get rid of him? The leftover booze in his belly is roiling around something fierce. “Fuck yes, I’m sure.”

Adam isn’t listening. He drones on in that kind voice, “Maybe you’re not ready for this, or maybe you thought you were but you aren’t.”

“Adam,” Tommy says warningly, fear bleeding into anger. “I don’t talk that much, do I?” He extracts himself from Adam’s embrace and sits up abruptly.

“No, but that’s –“

“So if I do talk, you should shut _up_ and listen!”

“Oh.” Adam sounds surprised. As well he should.

“I said I want it and you need to just believe me, you bossy bastard.”

“Oh. Okay.” Adam sits up and clicks on the bedside lamp. “Tommy, I believe whatever you tell me.”

Tommy blinks. Light still doesn’t feel that great on his eyes. He shades them with a hand and leans into Adam’s shadow.

“So is this a good time to talk?” Adam adds.

“No!” Tommy blurts out. Dumb old Adam. “Fuck me, rock star, I don’t wanna talk, I wanna get fucked.”

Adam places a hand in the middle of Tommy’s chest and tenderly but firmly pushes him back to the bed. He climbs halfway over Tommy and plants his elbows on either side of Tommy’s head. “Tommy, I don’t want to fuck you,” he says gently.

Tommy squeezes his eyes closed. What more could possibly go wrong? He managed to fuck it up, like he knew he would. Adam doesn’t want him anymore. When he feels Adam’s lips on his he feels like crying. He wants to shove back and tell Adam to leave him alone. Bastard.

“I want to make love to you,” Adam says, oblivious to the maelstrom of Tommy’s thoughts.

Huh? That’s almost _worse_ than what Tommy was thinking two seconds ago. So fucking cheesy. God, it’s awesome.

“But you’re kind of under the influence still,” Adam continues.

Tommy’s head is ping-ponging back and forth with these about-faces. “What? Come on, don’t make me wait.”

“What part of love-making don’t you get?”

“All of it! Fuck me now, damn it.”

“And you call me bossy. Lights on or off?”

“Off.”

Adam reaches out and turns off the lamp. “Good night, Tommy love.”

Oh what the fuck. Tommy exhales loudly. “I hate you,” he says, trying to roll onto his side under the assumption that he’s supposed to be making like a little spoon again. He’s not going to do it graciously, that’s for fucking sure.

Adam’s hands stop him, put him back in place. Adam’s lips are on his eyelids, his cheeks, his chin.

“Adam, what –“

“Hush, love. Keep your eyes closed.”

Adam’s hands cradle his face and then they are kissing, soul-satisfyingly deep. Oh thank gawd. Tommy rubs his hands along Adam’s sides, eliciting a moan; circles his arms around Adam’s back, hitches one leg over Adam’s thigh.

“Hold on, baby,” Adam says. “Turn over for me.”

“Why?” Tommy doesn’t want that, he wants to see Adam. It’s dark in the room but there’s light from the big windows.

“It’s easier the first time,” Adam says quietly. “Turn over, baby.”

He physically rolls Tommy over, pulls up his hips, and puts a pillow underneath. Tommy feels absurd. Who could feel okay with their ass in the air? He buries his hot face in another pillow and hangs onto it for dear life. Adam’s hands massage his neck and shoulders, and then Adam kisses his neck right at the hairline where it’s so sensitive. Tommy shudders involuntarily.

“Baby,” Adam whispers.

“Not a baby,” Tommy mumbles.

“My baby.”

Tommy feels Adam’s hands stroke up and down his arms, then his back. Kisses trail along Tommy’s knobby spine all the way down to the top of his exposed ass. He’s heard about rimming, hell, he’s seen it in a gay porn video, and suddenly there’s a tongue licking his hole and then cool air and the sensation makes him vibrate nearly out of his skin. He’s not going to scream but jeeeeezus christola. Maybe he did scream.

Adam kisses his ass cheek and gets off the bed. “Hold that thought, I’ll be right back.”

“Adam!”

“Don’t move,” Adam instructs from the doorway.

Tommy rolls off the pillows and onto his back.

Adam comes back and he looks disappointed. “I said don’t move.” He drops Astroglide and a condom packet next to Tommy, then peels off his boxers and shirt and crawls onto the bed.

“It felt weird,” Tommy says, arm over his eyes. “Can’t we do it like this?”

Adam gently pulls the arm away and down. “Later we can. Trust me, it’ll be better the first time if you turn over.” He strokes Tommy’s throat with his hand, kisses his jaw line. “I know it feels awkward but I’ll make it so good for you.”

Tommy looks at Adam. He trusts Adam even if his ass doesn’t. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Okay.” It is what it is. This is what Adam wants. He turns over; Adam helps reposition him on the pillows, pushes his knees apart, runs hands down his back. Then the hands are gone and there’s the pop of a tube being opened, and then cool gel on his hole and he shivers.

“Sorry, cold,” says Adam.

A finger goes in and wow, that’s a strange feeling. Not painful, just strange.

“Is it okay?” asks Adam.

Tommy nods vigorously. The stretching sensation isn’t at all bad, especially when Adam leans over him, the other hand caressing his arm, long strokes from elbow to shoulder and back.

Adam play-bites the nape of his neck. “You’re pretty everywhere, Tommy Joe. Your skin is so smooth. Pale. I’m going to get you some black lace panties, you’d look amazing.”

Tommy’s not so sure. He’s not into girlie underthings. Maybe Adam will forget later that he said that. Then there’s more stretching which Tommy assumes is another finger. It’s still not bad, except when he remembers it’s his _asshole_ and Adam’s fingers are in it.

“You feel good, honey.” Adam licks up his spine. “Does it feel okay?”

“Yeah,” Tommy mumbles.

The fingers pull out and Tommy grunts a little. He was just getting used to it. He hears the crackle of foil and the tube cap snapping open again. Suddenly there’s something against his ass again and it ain’t fingers. Adam’s hands are on his hips.

“Tell me if it’s too much.”

“It’s not.” Although it kind of is. He was right, that thing is a fucking tight fit. He concentrates on not fainting or anything equally disgraceful. Adam makes it easier by pausing, letting him get used to the feel of it, leaning over his back and surrounding him with Adam-scent which is very comforting. “Okay, I think you’re supposed to actually do some actual fucking,” Tommy growls. Now or never.

“Bossy,” Adam says on a sigh and a giggle.

Hands are digging into Tommy’s hips – he can almost make out the whorls of Adam’s fingertips. That’s the booze talking but still. He expects he’ll find fingerprint-shaped bruises tomorrow. Adam does move, slowly, sensually, sliding in and out. It hurts less and if he still had any doubts, his dick is taking an interest. In spite of the chill in the air and all the exposed naked skin, he’s getting sweaty where Adam is plastered against him, the insides of his thighs, the small of his back, his shoulder blades. “You can go faster,” he half-whispers, half-pants.

Adam reaches around and gets Tommy’s dick in his big hand, jacking in time with his increasingly enthusiastic thrusts, whispering sweet, stupid things against the back of his neck. Even the sound of his breathing is sexy. Tommy feels like he’s climbing a mountain and thank god for that pillow under his hips because his thighs are shaking with the effort of not just going flat to the mattress under Hurricane Adam and his mad fucking skills. When he comes it feels incredible, and when it’s over Adam is still rocking him into next week, moaning softly, whispering _oh my god Tommy_ with a delicious raspiness and then stopping, going taut, groaning like he’s about to die.

And then collapsing on top of Tommy like a ton of bricks, ow.

The weight is kind of nice, it grounds him for a couple of minutes. When he realizes his own breathing is getting really shallow he pokes Adam with a bony elbow and Adam rolls them over until they’re spooning. There’s no such thing as being in a bed with Adam and not getting spooned. Tommy figures he needs to get used to this and he’s already halfway there. He never could sleep curled up with someone until Adam.

When Adam pulls out it kind of hurts again but just for a moment, and then Adam’s up and off the bed and back with a warm, damp towel, cleaning them up, which is nice since Tommy’s the girl in this situation and it’s kind of expected that Adam take care of clean-up. This bed being smaller than the one in the master suite, they have to wriggle and shift around to find a reasonably sized dry area for sleeping.

Adam’s curled around him and Tommy’s mind is reconsidering everything. His body feels used, in a mostly good way. He wants to stay here forever, just keep this moment. Because if he could, he wouldn’t have to think about it any longer or deal with the world, now that his whole idea of who he was is so changed from even just a year or two ago. What good is growing up if not to know yourself and stop agonizing over who you’re supposed to be? The growing up seems to have worked for others, maybe it’s just Tommy lagging behind again. Adam seems to know who he is, Monte seems comfortable with himself, Jillian’s never seemed anything but grownup but then, she’s a girl and girls are more together anyway.

Adam exhales contentedly and bites Tommy’s earlobe. “I love you so much, honey,” he whispers, clamping the arm around Tommy’s midsection even tighter.

“Why me?” Tommy whispers.

“Why you what?”

“Why me and not someone else?”

“You mean why do I love you?” Now Adam sounds worried.

Tommy nods against the pillow. “It can’t just be that I’m your so-called type. I’m way far from being the only pretty kitty in L.A.”

“But that’s the thing, Tommy, you are exactly my type. Not physically. I don’t mean that. Even though you are the prettiest kitty anywhere and you’d better not disagree with me on that. I mean emotionally. Spiritually.”

“I’m not spiritual.”

“Oh, you so are, honey. Spirituality isn’t about God or religion, it’s about being part of the universe. Your soul is in your music.”

Tommy’s not convinced but this isn’t the time to argue about that. If Adam wants to insist he has a soul, okay, so long as it can be an atheist soul. “Music is all I can do.” Unlike talented Adam, he thinks.

Adam squeezes him so hard that Tommy thinks his ribs might crack. “Stop it, baby, you are an amazing musician but there is so much more to you. I’ll write a whole list out tomorrow, okay? Right now all you need to know is I’m in love with you because you are Tommy Joe Ratliff and you are the things you do and the way you grew up and the people you love and the generosity in your nature and the sweetness in your soul and the music in your fingertips. And I’ve never ever known anyone like you. So there.”

Adam eases his embrace a bit and Tommy relaxes marginally.

“I could hold you like this forever,” Adam says sleepily.

Tommy loves Adam, too. Like, so much. There’s never been anyone like Adam, not just for him but for all sorts of people. Adam is special in so many ways, he can’t figure out why Adam thinks there’s anything special about him. He’s pretty good with the guitar, not gonna lie, but he’s no genius. What’s special about being nice to people? That doesn’t make him stand out from the crowd. Nothing about him makes him stand out, not really. He doesn’t understand Adam. He appreciates Adam… just doesn’t understand. He wants the love that Adam gives him but he’s not sure what to do with it. He trusts Adam is being honest but he’s having a hard time believing that Adam will still feel this way in another year. Adam’s life is amazing, Adam is totally amazing, and people around the world are falling all over him, so how is Tommy from Burbank going to be able to keep up, to compete with all of that? The answer is, he can’t. He wasn’t made for this. With a girl, at least, he could give her some kids and be a good provider like Monte is for Lisa and the children. But with Adam it’s not so easy to become parents, there’s no blazed trail to follow, and anyway Adam’s always going to be lots richer and won’t need Tommy for a sugar-daddy. He can’t figure out what the hell he can give Adam that’s worth so much that Adam will stay with him.

* * *

Two hours later Tommy wakes up suddenly. It’s still dark outside. He’s immobilized by Adam, unsurprisingly: half-smothered under the weight and bound around by arms and legs. Tommy wonders how Adam can sleep like that. Lately he’s been wondering how _he_ can sleep like that.

There’s an odd twinge in his ass, bringing back thoughts of getting fucked. His brain is off on a binge now – he’s been fucked. Taken it up the ass. For awhile there he was even biting a pillow. It’s like every bad cliché ever of the jokes that boys and men use to taunt others who are different. Because he’d been small and pretty and had hated athletics, he’d been called cocksucker and faggot and queer. He wasn’t those things except for a brief period when he gave the gay a whirl, but he didn’t care if fucktards called him names. They were fucktards, end of story. Sticks and stones.

But now, it’s for real. It feels like there’s a stamp on his forehead that says _I got fucked._

He extricates himself from Adam’s grip and goes to the master bedroom to find his clothes. He gets dressed in the dark and flees.


	8. Chapter 8

Jillian hands Tommy’s cell back to him.

“All gone.”

“Did you read them?”

“Yes, some of them.”

“Were they bad?”

She nods.

“Can you get rid of the voicemails too? Don’t listen to them, just delete them.”

“Did you listen to them?”

“Fuck no.” Tommy dials voicemail and puts in his password. He hands the cell to Jillian again and goes out to her balcony so he doesn’t hear even the tinny little voices over the phone while she’s dealing with it. The balcony overlooks the busy Hollywood freeway. It’s kind of relaxing and kind of numbing, listening to the sound of hundreds of revving car engines.

“Monte rescheduled the gig, he wants to know if you’re still up for it!” Jillian calls through the open door.

What part of “don’t listen to them” doesn’t Jillian get? He’s been staying on her couch for three nights so he doesn’t have to hide in his own apartment when people come banging on the door. The only person he’s called is his mom and thankfully she has no idea what’s going on because she’s in Phoenix with his sister for a few days.

He’d spent Sunday morning squirreled away in his apartment, thinking dark thoughts about walking into the ocean and just staying there, or moving to South Dakota where there are no people. He’d tried to distract himself by writing music and was only halfway successful. Finally he had texted Jillian _need you NOW_ and got an immediate response _come over_. So he shoved some clothes in a duffle bag and grabbed one guitar and made it there in record time.

Jillian’s been holding his hand metaphorically ever since. She goes to work but every evening comes back and commiserates with him.

Ten minutes go by and Jillian joins him on the balcony, leaning over the railing. “Who’s Eber?”

“Crap, who gave him my phone number?”

Jillian grins lopsidedly. “This is one big clusterfuck.”

“I know.”

“You need to do something, Tommy.”

“I wrote a sad song.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Not being funny. I wrote a sad song.”

Jillian looks over at him. “Dude, a sad song ain’t gonna cut it.”

Tommy chews on his lip. “I know that.”

“You need to fix things.”

“Nothing to fix. Not now.”

“Hoo boy. I kind of see where you’re coming from but it’s tough love time, Tommy. You can stay here however long you like and Heath is being very patient for now, but you have to do something. You can’t mope around forever. It’s not healthy. And don’t think you can blame everyone else because you brought it on yourself.”

“Let me know how you really feel, why doncha.”

“Yeah? Well, okay, here’s a newsflash. Your sex god has decided to get it from somewhere else because the gossip sites are having a good time with him and his latest boytoys.”

Tommy’s gut clenches. He doesn’t want to hear about this. It hurts – and he doesn’t even deserve to feel hurt. He did bring it on himself. “Plural? Shit.”

“Looks like at least two. Both prettier than you.”

“Jilly, you’re one mean bitchy motherfucker.”

“Thanks. I work at it.”

“It’s better this way, he can get what he wants from them.”

Jillian squints into the setting sun. “But you want him still.”

Tommy shrugs, not wanting to say it out loud, it’s just that pathetic.

“Ask yourself this: is he worth it?” says Jillian.

“Maybe.”

“See, there’s the moping again. If you want him, do something about it. If you’re over him, stop beating yourself up about it.”

“What if I’m just plain old straight after all? Why did I ever think this would work.”

“Bullshit. You think I’ve never been attracted to a man? I have. It’s not always black and white.”

“Then what is my problem? This is why I don’t believe in God because why would he do this to people? I hate myself for acting like this.”

“What did I just say? Do you even listen?” Jillian digs in her jeans pocket and pulls out Tommy’s phone. “I know what you need to do first.” She dials a number and holds out the phone.

Tommy puts his hand up, fast. “No, I don’t want –“

“Not Adam,” she says, pushing the phone into his hand. “Skyler.”

Tommy takes the phone between two fingers like it’s a poisonous snake and darts into the apartment and drops onto the couch. He hopes Jillian isn’t listening.

“Hello?” says a voice he still recognizes.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy says. “It wasn’t you, it was me. I’m such a dick.”

“Tommy Ratliff?” Skyler sounds happy to hear him. “Wow, long time no talk!” Why is he so happy? Oh right, he has a boyfriend and he knows he’s gay and he’s comfortable with that and he’s moved on with his life. Unlike some developmentally retarded people.

Several apologies later, followed by several demurrals and lots of Skyler saying shit like _don’t worry I’m good_ and _it’s so hard being a teenager_ and _you didn’t hurt me, not on purpose_ , not to mention talk of how impressed he is that Tommy’s making it in music at last, Tommy’s heart feels lighter. They actually make plans for Tommy and Jillian to come down to San Diego to see Skyler and meet his boyfriend and go to the zoo or Sea World or Old Town.

When it’s over he tosses the phone on the carpet. Jillian is standing between the balcony and the living room. “Better?”

Tommy nods. “I need a hug,” he says.

“I’m not much of a hugger. I’m a mean bitchy mofo.”

“I know. But I need a hug.”

Jillian sits by him on the couch and hugs him for a minute.

“I feel like an idiot,” Tommy says.

“You kind of are right now,” Jillian sighs.

“I blew it, didn’t I?”

“You might have.”

“Tough love?”

“You know it.” She pulls away. “That’s all I got, hug-wise. You know I love you, Tommy.”

“Yeah, thanks. I love you, Jilly.”

She strokes his cheek. “You need to shave. You’re starting to look like a little bear.”

Tommy rubs at his chin. “It’s itchy, but I forgot my razor.”

“Go home and get it and bring it back. Or go to a store and buy one. You need to get out of this building.”

“Fresh air.” Tommy nods.

* * *

It’s after eleven at night when he passes Malibu on the way to El Matador State Beach and finds his favorite spot from when he was nineteen, where he’d sit in the shadows with a six-pack or a bottle of cheap vodka and be swallowed up in the clamor of waves that can drown out the sounds of traffic or anything else for that matter. Late-night El Matador is mostly empty; sometimes might be a homeless bum sleeping in the shadow of the cliffs, or a far-off fire ring, but he doesn’t see anything tonight. It’s easy to imagine that he’s alone on the planet.

He doesn’t fail to bring the booze this time, either. Numbness is an important part of the equation. After an uncertain amount of time his head is spinning. He wraps his arms around his legs because the breeze coming off the water is cold, and he tilts his head to look at the stars, which are actually visible out here away from city lights. He imagines being an astronaut, or maybe just riding on Space Mountain at Disneyland, one of the few roller coasters he can stand because it’s not very fast. The stars are dancing and he thinks it would be cool to see the northern lights some day.

Sometimes he even screams when he’s out here, veiled in the white noise of the ocean, just to get it out of his system. Like tonight. It feels good.

When he’s nearly freezing and losing too much dry sand to the incoming tide, he staggers to his feet, hitches his pants back up, grabs the mostly-full bottle, and heads back up the slope for his car. He throws the bottle in the trunk, pees into a bush, and for some dumb reason decides to take the scenic route back to Jillian’s place via Topanga Canyon and then Mulholland. The curves of the road keep him awake, that and the wide-open windows because it’s hard to fall asleep with an icy blast right in the face. The moon is rising against the horizon, directly in front of him, so big and orange that it looks like he could drive right up to it.

It turns out Tommy’s not the only person on the road – headlights on high-beam flare around a turn, some asshole in the middle of the road. Tommy brakes in slow motion; at any rate that’s how it feels. A horn blares, metal squeals, and Bessie crunches to a stop against a guardrail.

Well. He’s alive, he’s awake, the airbag didn’t deploy so the impact occurred probably at less than 30 mph. Those are all good things. “Sorry, girl,” he says, patting the steering wheel. He’s still strapped in. He takes inventory and things seem okay except his left leg appears to be stuck in the accordioned front panel. He jiggles it. Works fine. Just can’t get it out.

He can’t turn his head or check out the exterior situation, so he has no idea what happened to the other car, if it crashed, or drove on and if so, what a fucking asshole. His left arm hurts a bit so it’s good that his cell is in his right pocket. He fishes it out and looks at it a moment. He thinks about Adam, but Adam won’t care. Monte will care. So will Jillian but he’s imposed on her too much lately. He decides to call Monte but first he has to call for help. Monte can do only so much.

As soon as the 911 dispatcher gets all the information and tells him to stay on the line, he hangs up and speed-dials the Pittman land-line. He feels bad for calling at this hour but he knows he’s experiencing some shock, so Monte will forgive him.

Monte’s kind of loud when the connection is made. “Tommy! Tommy! It’s three a.m.! Where the fuck are you, what the fuck are you doing?!”

Wow. Monte rarely sounds so – energetic.

“Tommy! Talk!”

“I’m here, I’m okay,” he says.

“Okay how? What the fuck happened?”

“No, really, I’m fine, it’s just I’m kind of stuck here in the car –“

In one ear Tommy hears Lisa’s voice and a baby crying and in the other, it sounds like a distant siren.

“Tommy, hang up and call 911.”

“Already did that.”

“They’re coming?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, now where are you? He’s okay, Lisa, hold on. Where?”

“Mulholland, just crossed over the 405.”

“Okay, they’ll take you to UCLA. Hang up and I’ll see you there, buddy.”

“Thanks, Monte, you’re the…” he says, passing out, the phone slipping from his hand.

* * *

Monte’s still in the middle of grilling him – _were you wearing your seat belt, were you drinking, don’t lie to me, what were you doing out there at that hour, did anyone know where you were, why haven’t you been answering my calls, you are fucking lucky the other driver had more alcohol in his system than you did_ – when Cam shows up so praise Jesus M. Christ for that. She kisses his cheek and compliments the lovely hospital room decor and is vocally disappointed that there’s no cast to draw naughty things on.

“Dunno why they don’t just let me leave,” Tommy grouses. It’s mid-day and he woke up a long while back and ate something that makes Taco Hell seem like a gourmet establishment. By now they’ve removed lots of his blood and as some sort of rebate they put something back into him – fluids. What kind of fluids? It could be anything. His left elbow is bandaged tightly; the doctor had said something about a very minor fracture and a splint. Other than that Tommy feels good to go.

“Cam,” he whispers. “Do me a favor and call my friend Jillian and tell her I’m okay? Here’s her number.” He writes it on the back of a brochure on Drinking and Driving. “I don’t know where my phone went.”

“I’ll take care of it, Tommy.”

“Monte’s still going all ‘mad dad’ on me so I didn’t ask him to do it.”

“No worries. Want me to call your mom?”

Tommy grimaces. “Fuck no, I don’t want her to know anything. She’s in Phoenix, don’t bother her.”

“Okay, be back in a few, cells don’t work in here for some reason.”

Monte sits down in a chair, looking exhausted.

“Sorry,” says Tommy.

Monte gives him the hairy eyeball for a moment, then his features relax. “You had me so worried.”

“Yeah, I figured that out.”

“Sorry for the third degree.”

Tommy shifts around. He’s propped up in the bed, with various pamphlets about medical issues spread around the blanket. “What about the other driver?”

“He’s a little more banged up than you but nothing that can’t be fixed.”

“He was drunk?”

“Yep.”

“I wasn’t drunk, Monte, I’d never get in a car that way.”

Monte glowers at him. “You know what I’m going to say.”

“Drinking lowers inhibitions.”

Monte nods.

“How’s Bessie?”

“Your friend at the auto shop is going to pick her up from the impound lot later.”

Tommy hopes she’s okay. She’s a good car and they’re used to each other. He doesn’t want to have to put her down and get another one.

“Your blood-level alcohol was oh-point-seven-five when they took it at the hospital. That means you might have been oh-point-eight at the time of the accident. You know what that means.”

Tommy sighs. “I get it, Monte. I’ve been bad.”

“I just want you to live and stay out of jail, is that too much to ask?”

Tommy looks down at his bruised hands.

The door opens and Cam says, “Hey, look who I found wandering around the halls!” in a nervously excited voice.

Tommy looks up and oh fuck. It’s Adam. Adam who is across the room in three strides and grabbing his shoulders and shaking him.

“What were you trying to do – kill yourself?”

“No!” Tommy says, indignant and overwhelmed.

Adam looks like shit, and pissed off, and maybe like he was crying.

“Were you drinking?” Adam hisses.

Monte’s up and pulling Adam away. “Back down, Adam. I already covered this ground.”

Adam yanks his arm out of Monte’s grasp, still focused on Tommy. “Why are you doing this to me?”

That doesn’t make sense. Except it does. Tommy doesn’t know how to answer that so he’s rooting for Monte to talk some sense into Adam or at least pull him away, although fat chance of that, Adam’s got some serious height on Monte and on Cam, too. They should totally double-team him and get him out of here, because Tommy is an invalid and this is the first time Tommy’s actually been kind of scared of Adam. Physically scared.

“Will you guys fucking go away and let me talk to him?” Adam says.

“Wrong time for this,” says Monte.

“Fuck that, I’m not kidding.” Adam is persistent.

The doctor of all people comes to the rescue, sauntering into the middle of the war zone like all’s well in the world. “Mr. Ratliff, you seem to have lots of visitors.” He eyeballs Adam, who is at least a foot taller. “You look familiar,” the doctor says, giving Adam a closer look. “Well, Mr. Ratliff, I need to talk with you about management of your injuries over the next couple of weeks. Is one of you taking Tommy home today?”

Tommy has barely a microsecond to register the word “today” with intense relief when Adam says “Yes” at the same moment that Monte says “I will.”

Tommy frowns. “Can Cam take me to Jillian’s? I’ve been staying there.”

“That explains it,” Monte says. “I’d rather you stay with Lisa and the kids. She doesn’t have to go to work and she can look after you real well.”

“I don’t need a nurse, do I?”

“No,” says the doctor. “This kind of injury is not uncommon. If you take good care of the elbow you’re going to be fine in a couple of weeks.”

“Rad. So, Cam?” Tommy asks.

“Of course,” Cam says brightly. “I’mma take you to your ladyfriend, Tommy. No worries.”

Of course there are worries. Adam doesn’t go quietly. It takes several pointed looks from the doctor to make him budge, and at long last Monte pulls Adam from the room.

Tommy gets to leave within a half hour. On the ride to Jillian’s, Cam tells him the latest: Adam’s been invited to sing at a glam-rock showcase in L.A. a week from now and they’re planning on doing _Fever_.

Tommy’s not positive they want him in the band anymore but Cam won’t listen to that; she makes sure he knows there’s nobody else they would play with. He wonders about the elbow but the doctor did say he should use his hand, keep it moving. He might have to have a bandaged elbow on-stage. He can wear a long-sleeved tee or a jacket. No big.

Tommy lets himself in because Jillian’s still at work. He finds his cell in the bottom of the white plastic bag of his shit that they’d presented to him upon discharge.

He falls asleep – probably due to all the bloodletting. The door banging open wakes him up and there’s Jillian and Heath and a big pepperoni pizza.

* * *

“Pretty sure they’re feeding my blood to vampires in the morgue,” Tommy says around a mouthful of pizza.

Jillian gives him space about the accident, doesn’t ask if he was trying to do himself a harm.

Heath is up for a game of Dead Rising 2 on the Xbox.

When his phone rings and it’s Monte, he picks it up and has a short conversation that’s long on _are you doing this? are you doing that?_ Monte cares. Even if he was yelling at Tommy earlier and that’s the first time ever that Monte has yelled at him. Monte cares. Tommy counts it a win.

Heath stays the night so Tommy sacks out on the couch and puts in his earbuds to give them some privacy. He listens in the dark to Depeche Mode. His phone vibrates around midnight; it’s a text from Adam.

 _did u even read my messages?_

 _no_ Tommy texts back.

 _fuck you_

Tommy figures he deserves that. He texts, _was afraid it wuld hurt 2 much_

The phone goes dark. Tommy pulls out his earbuds and turns his iPod off. The apartment is quiet, so he wraps the blanket tighter around himself and snuggles into the couch with his phone in his hand.

Finally it vibrates again.

 _I’m sorry_

Tommy replies, _me too_

* * *

Now that Monte knows how to get hold of him, the self-imposed exile is over. Monte checks in several times a day, monitoring his mood and his healing elbow, asking about his diet and whether he’s drinking and other things that are none of his damn business. (But he cares, so it’s okay. Tommy will deal.)

Tommy begs off practice. He doesn’t really want to work out the kinks of the elbow thing in front of everyone, and he doesn’t want to see Adam right now. Or he does, but. He knows the bass line like it’s burned in his brain so it’s not like he’ll mess up onstage. After three more days with Jillian, he decides he needs the Gibson instead of the ESP that he brought that first night to Jillian’s, so he tells her the next morning that he’s ready to emigrate back to his own apartment.

“Damn, and I was just getting used to your ugly mug at breakfast,” she says. Her laptop is on the kitchen table and she’s checking headlines, if PerezHilton.com has what could be termed headlines. “Oh look, he’s twinking out again.”

“What the fuck.” Tommy looks over her shoulder.

“It’s the same guy from Tuesday. I think. They’re all blond and tiny.”

Tommy sits down with a thump. “I waited too long.”

“I’m sorry, Tommy.” Jillian gives him a sympathetic look. “Life sucks.”

“At least I don’t have to find a new job.” He drags the Cheerios box over and pours some into his bowl. “But it’s awkward.”

“Time can heal nearly anything. Just give it time. No one actually dies of a broken heart.”

“I guess.”

“Tragedy plus time equals comedy.”

“You’re saying I’ll find this funny in ten years or so?”

Jillian smacks his good arm.

“Hey, I still got bruises.” But Tommy smiles.

“More coffee? Listen, you don’t have to keep this particular job. You have a lot more visibility and credibility than you used to. You’re not stuck. You can play with other bands or get session work.”

Tommy chews on dry Cheerios and thinks about it. “But I like this band.”

“My point is, if it turns out to be too hard to deal with it, you have options.”

* * *

Tommy doesn’t want options. At least not until it’s show-time and they’re all rubbing elbows with other bands in the same couple of dressing rooms at the familiar Nokia Theatre.

Adam keeps going in and out, his face expectant-looking like he wants to talk to Tommy, but there’s always other people around. Isaac is in a corner applying his own guyliner while Sutan finishes with Tommy’s eye shadow. “You look soooo good, gorgeous,” Sutan says. “We need to go out sometime, I’ve been missing you.”

“Same here,” Tommy says.

“I gotta do Adam now. Don’t mess up my work.” Sutan hovers over him a moment longer, leaning down to whisper in his ear very softly, “He’s going to be so sorry.”

No need to ask who “he” is. Sutan waltzes out with a conspiratorial wink.

Tommy stares at himself in the dressing room mirror. He’s wearing his Interview with the Vampire jacket because it hides the bulky splint thing on his elbow. Normally he gets too hot in it but they’re doing only one song. He looks like his Glam Nation self, a bit glittery, a lot hot. He thinks of Adam and all those kisses that drove him nuts for months. Fever, huh? Sutan’s gotta be wrong, the fever’s over. And if Sutan’s right, well, Tommy’s not in the mood for that, not after all the twinkalicious news. Tommy Ratliff is nobody’s safety lover. He’d rather be alone. He thinks very dark thoughts as he viciously applies black lipstick.

Onstage, as the opening music starts, Adam does look over at Tommy. He looks hurt; maybe it’s the lipstick. He certainly won’t want the black shit all over his own face. The audience probably has no clue except for the ones who’ve become used to the licking and kissing. For Adam, the show is important and he always feels he owes a great performance to the audience, so the song goes down great. Tommy plays fine, jams next to Monte half the time. Everything’s cool.

Back in the dressing area, Adam suggests an impromptu celebration at Soho House. Tommy says he’s tired and wants to go home. Apparently there’s no end to the number of different expressions Adam can employ to look hurt and/or angry these days. The weird part is that he still looks sexy while doing it.

Cam has been playing chauffeur until Bessie 2.0 is ready, so he heads out with her.

“I didn’t want to go drinking anyway,” she tells him on the drive to Burbank. “Adam’s so bitchy these days. All he wants is an excuse to spend time with you anyway.”

“Really?”

“Mm-hmmm.”

“Maybe me and Adam have to figure out how to be friends again. So the band will work.”

“It’ll work, things are settling. You don’t owe him anything, Tommy. He’s the one who started it at that award show. And then kept going and going and going. He shouldn’t have.”

“I told him it was okay.”

“Doesn’t matter. He knew better.”

Tommy drums his fingers on the outside of the passenger door. It’s still early because the show was scheduled for television, not nightlife, and Adam was the first act. It’s been another beautiful, warm day. “Seems like my life has been nothing but drama for weeks.”

“Drama queen.”

“You know it.” Tommy stares out the window. “I’m tired of it is all.”

“I can imagine.” Cam pulls over in front of his apartment building. “You need to do something different. Get your mind off the drama.”

“Took my mom to lunch today. I mean, she had to pick me up, but you know.”

“That’s a good start. A nice, low-pressure outing.”

“Well, she did freak about the elbow. I had to tell her everything. Nearly everything.”

Cam turns off the car and looks over at Tommy. “I’m inviting myself up.”

“The place needs airing out.”

“So we’ll air it out. Why don’t we invite some of your neighbors to come and listen to music?”

“You mean like Megadeth?” Tommy isn’t so sure that would be welcomed.

“No, silly. Get out the six-string guitar and I’ll sing some old folk songs.”

Tommy raises both eyebrows and nods. “Bet they would like that.”

It’s the most amazing thing. Mrs. Porter rounds up some of the elderly folks who haven’t gone to bed yet and are able to climb stairs and brings them to Tommy’s apartment, where they perch on the sofa and the kitchen chairs that Tommy and Cam have set out. Cam has a sweet high voice and Tommy finds some tabs on the net, embellishes the chords with soft flourishes. The applause they get is more enthusiastic and heartfelt than what they got earlier in the evening from the hipsters in the showcase audience. Tommy’s pretty sure there’s a few tears.

Cam and Tommy sit at his kitchen table later, snacking on Triscuits and Chips Ahoy, talking quietly.

“I miss Adam,” says Tommy.

“You aren’t missing anything, trust me.” Cam pours herself a shot of whisky from the bottle on the table. “So bitchy, you have no idea.”

“Still.”

“Things will work out.”

“Maybe I need to find a girlfriend.”

Cam laughs. “You’re not going to manage that if you only hang out with lesbians!”

“I love lesbians,” Tommy says with a smirk.

Cam pushes her chair back. “That was fun, I’m so glad we did that.”

“Yeah, great idea. Pretty sure Mrs. Porter is setting up a gig for us for next month.”

“I’ll be there,” Cam says. “Monte’s taking you to the doc to check on your arm tomorrow, right?”

Tommy nods.

“Ease up on this stuff, okay?” she says, capping the whisky bottle. “It’ll make you morose.”

“Okay, mom, thanks.”

* * *

In between waiting for X-rays and the doctor, Tommy tells Monte about the night before. Monte enjoys the story; he’s back to his kind, even-keeled self. He’s all about the “it’ll work out so why worry.” Tommy hasn’t forgotten Monte’s offer to talk about – well, about _that_ – but Tommy definitely doesn’t want to. He’ll never be ready to do that. Tommy’s going to survive without that. He won’t be happy, he won’t be fulfilled, or especially jazzed but he’ll survive. He still has his friends, his mom and sister, his guitars and music.

A new scan shows that the fracture is healing perfectly. He graduates to a lighter splint that allows some flexibility. It’s a different doctor, a woman with an Indian accent and long black hair who is fascinated by his gory tattoos. “Come back in four weeks,” she says. “I can refer you to someone who can remove those.”

Tommy keeps his grin to himself.

On the drive back it’s nearly dinnertime so Monte suggests home-cooked at his house. They turn onto Monte’s tree-lined street, pull into the driveway, and get out to go through the yard to the back door. From the kitchen they go into the living room, which has too many people in it, all of whom stand up and stare at Tommy.

Lisa, Cam, Terrance, Jillian and Neil. Neil? What the fuck? Tommy looks over at Monte. “What’s going on, Monte?”

Monte looks guilty. “We need to talk with you.”

Tommy gapes at them. This is unbe-fucking-lievable. “Oh fuck no you don’t, not this.” Tommy backs away, turning to leave.

“Tommy, please.”

“I am not doing this with you guys, no way.”

Monte blocks the doorway to the kitchen. “Please, Tommy. We’re your friends.”

“You want me to yell F-bombs in front of the kids? Because I will.”

“My parents have them for the evening,” Lisa says. She looks guilty, too.

Tommy thinks about shoving Monte out of the way. He’ll need to call a cab from the sidewalk. How did he miss noticing Cam’s car or Jillian’s car out front? It’s a heavily parked-up street but still. He can’t believe they conspired against him like this.

“I’m out of here,” he announces, frantically seeking an escape route.

“Tommy.” Monte holds his good arm gently. “We’re worried about you. You got in a car crash. You were drinking.”

Tommy can’t bring himself to push Monte. “Fuck you,” he says weakly. “Don’t do this.”

“Gotta do it, bro. You can’t make us care about you and then walk away like that.”

Tommy yanks his arm back. “I didn’t walk away! I wasn’t trying to kill myself, why the fuck would I do that?”

“You were this fucking close to a mandatory three months in a _jail cell!_ Not to mention if the accident had been worse.” Mad Monte is back. Shit.

“I’m good, look.” Tommy holds up his arm. “I can even play the guitar.”

They all stare at him sadly.

Tommy stares back. Clearly they’re not going to let him go, not without a fight that he doesn’t want to have.

“Tommy, you can’t drink your way through life,” Monte says. “I know you’ve got some reasons lately for it being worse and all, but I’m just saying. We want you to stop before something real bad happens.”

Tommy burns Jillian with a fierce look. “Why are you in cahoots on this? You know me better than any of them.”

“That’s why I’m here. I do know you, and I know better than anyone how bad it is for you. You bottle stuff up.”

“So do you!”

“Yeah, I do,” she agrees, “but I’m a tough bitch, remember? I’m way tougher than you. Or anyone else in this room.”

“Bitches rule,” Cam says. She and Jillian bump fists.

“Fuck!” Tommy yells. “You people are certifiable.” There’s nothing for it but to get through this fiasco. He marches over to the comfiest chair in the living room and thumps down, drops his face into his hands. He doesn’t have to watch while this happens. He’d close his ears if he could.

There’s a lot of nervous shuffling of feet.

“Who wants to start?” Monte asks.

Start? Geez.

“Drinking and driving is dangerous,” says Neil.

“Thank you for that pithy observation, Captain Obvious,” says Cam.

“Guys,” says Monte, a little tweaked. “This is serious.”

Silence falls again.

“That all you got?” Tommy asks, voice muffled. “Can I leave?”

“We maybe didn’t think it out far enough,” Terrance allows.

“Tommy,” says Lisa, all gentle and kind and shit like that, “we know it’s awful for you about… you-know-who.”

“No, you don’t know.” He hates being rude to Lisa, who doesn’t deserve it, but she really does _not_ know.

“We can guess, Tommy. We’ve all been through difficult relationships. I’m sure I’m not alone in saying that.”

General grunting agreement all around. What the fuck do they know? Which one of them had to struggle with what he’s going through? None of them, he’d bet his favorite guitar on that.

“This may not be the right time to say this,” he hears Terrance’s calm voice saying, “but Adam’s suffering a lot, too. He’s miserable.”

“Right, this is all about Adam. I get that.”

“Not true,” Terrance says. “This is about you, Tommy.”

“Fuck Adam,” Cam agrees. “Not literally, of course.”

“Just let me go, please,” Tommy mutters through his hands. “Please. I promise I’ll never drive again if I have even one beer.”

A sudden commotion erupts from the bedroom wing and a voice says, “Get out of my way, I’ve had enough!”

“Damn it,” Monte calls out. “You’re supposed to be watching him.”

Tommy’s hands drop and he looks up, badly startled. He knows that voice. He leaps up and scrambles sideways, nearly tripping over a lamp table. “You brought _Adam_ here?!”

Adam bursts out of the hallway followed by a flailing Sutan.

“Hey, I tried,” Sutan says. “The prisoner broke free.”

Adam heads straight for Tommy. He gets intercepted by Neil and Monte.

“Back down, big guy,” Monte says.

Tommy retreats in a big hurry to the far side of the room, getting Cam and Jillian and Lisa between him and Adam. So what if they think he’s a pussy.

Adam looks absolutely furious. He’s prowling around the other side of the room like a panther, narrowed eyes never leaving Tommy’s face. “You walk out on me and then you dare to get in a fucking car accident! Do you know what I’ve done for you? And this is what I get in return?”

“Adam, stop it,” says Monte. “This won’t help.”

“Answer me!” Adam growls.

Tommy shakes his head. “No way, I am not going to get into a bitch-slapping contest with Adam in front of you all.” His eyes dart around the room, looking for sympathy or at least an exit. Precious little of either to be found. “No fucking way. I’d rather have sex in front of you than argue about this in front of you.”

“I could get behind that,” Cam says.

“So could Adam,” Neil adds.

“Cam! Neil!” Monte hollers.

“Just trying to lighten the mood, dude,” Neil says, hands up in surrender.

“It isn’t helping. So don’t.”

Monte’s cross again. Damn. For such a laid-back guy, he’s having to go through a lot of shit lately, all because of Tommy. Tommy tries to sneak off but Sutan catches him and holds on. “Hey,” he whispers in Tommy’s ear, “let’s stick around and figure this out, I won’t leave you alone with him.”

Tommy’s shaking but he nods. “Promise,” he mumbles.

“Promise,” whispers Sutan, releasing Tommy.

“Hey, I’m waiting for an answer,” Adam says. “You told me you were straight and then you told me you’re bi or at least you acted like it.”

“I wasn’t acting,” Tommy says with as much dignity as he can muster. He’s glad that Sutan is still close by. “Not on purpose.”

“Confused doesn’t cut it. I’m tired of being played. Do you know how many straight guys think it’s my job to help them figure out if maybe they’re not that straight? Am I supposed to be grateful for the attention?”

“I wasn’t doing that.”

“Oh? Prove it.”

“Prove it? Why should I prove it? _You_ were macking on _me_ for months!”

“And _you_ said I could do it!”

“Not the first time!”

“Well, if it was so awful why didn’t you tell me never to do it again?”

Tommy glares. He’s not going to answer that. Mostly because it would undercut his case something fierce.

“You _let_ me do it,” Adam answers for him, “in fact you liked it, don’t front, and then you told me you wanted me, and what was I supposed to do with that?”

“Adam,” Monte interrupts. “You think maybe you wanted it so bad that you were a little overzealous yourself, maybe? Huh? Not like you hadn’t gone through the straight-boy thing more than once. A person could argue that you should have known better.”

Adam rounds on Monte. “You’ve been there the whole time, longer even. You know what I’ve gone through. Whose side are you on?”

“I’m not on either side,” Monte says. “Or more like I’m on both your sides. You guys may not have been too smart about it but I know you both had the best intentions.”

Adam frowns. “Fuck intentions.” His eyes find Tommy’s again. Adam’s still skulking around the room, looking for an opening where he can get past Terrance and Neil so he can hunt little Tommy down. “Why did you walk out? It sucks being gay, doesn’t it, honey? You couldn’t deal with the fact that maybe people would know you got fucked? A lifetime of locker-room jokes about how straight guys don’t take it up the ass?”

“That’s not fair,” Tommy says, hoping his voice is steady. “I never let anyone get away with saying that shit in front of me.”

"True facts," Jillian throws in, but Adam ignores her.

“No? Then what’s your problem? Because I can tell you it doesn’t feel good to wake up and find out the guy you just told your _family_ is your _boyfriend_ is _gone_. To think for months I wasn’t seeing anyone just because I was mooning over _you_. God, I’m an idiot.”

“It doesn’t seem to have stopped you,” Tommy counters bitterly. “Like, you found some tail the next fucking day.”

Adam throws his hands in the air. “What? I’m not a priest, damn it! Or a monk or a… a rabbi!”

“Rabbis don’t have to be celibate,” Neil says apropos of nothing at all.

“Neil, I’m not sure why we asked you to come,” Monte says sourly.

“For comic relief, natch.”

Tommy raises his hand and they all look over at him. “I just wanted to say, I’ll leave the band and then nobody has to think about this anymore.”

There’s a loud chorus of “No way!”

Adam’s eyes widen comically. “You wouldn’t dare!”

Tommy’s eyes widen almost as much. “Isn’t that what you want?”

“No!” Adam makes another lunge for Tommy and Neil shows why he was invited by managing to stop Adam in his tracks. “Are you going to be chickenshit about this? You think I can’t handle it?”

“I think _I_ can’t,” Tommy says. “Not when you treat me like a baby.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, a baby. Hell, you call me baby all the time, and honey and boy and sweetheart and darling.”

“Those are _endearments_!”

“That doesn’t explain why you act like I’m a girl or something. Sorry, ladies, that came out wrong.”

“No worries,” says Cam. “We know what you mean.”

“I’m not Brad, you can’t treat me like that, it’s not the way it works with me,” Tommy adds.

“What’s wrong with Brad?”

“Nothing. He’s different from me, is all. You can’t treat me like I’m the second coming of Brad. I know he’s like the most awesome thing on the planet. He's happy and gay and he went to Burning Man with you and dresses up in drag and was a fix-up project for you. I can’t be him, I’m not like him and I can’t do anything about it. Like, I really don’t wanna wear lingerie.” He hopes he pronounced that right. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that Sutan is stifling a grin and has a you-go-boy smirk on his lips.

“You think I’m comparing you with Brad? You’re totally different. And hey, sue me if I like to take care of people I love,” Adam says.

“I don’t need to be taken care of. I’m a human being, I’m a grownup, I’m fucking _older_ than you, I’m not a baby!”

Adam glares. “Then maybe you should start acting like a grownup. I am about ready to slap the sass right off your face.”

Jillian gets up in Adam’s situation and slaps him across the face with a resounding smack.

“What the fuck?” Adam yells.

“I’m the bitch, I’ll do the slapping,” Jillian says.

“You go, girl,” Sutan says delightedly.

Adam pouts. “I wasn’t going to actually do it.”

“Even just saying it was nasty. Tommy is my friend and has been for sixteen years, and you don’t get to treat my friend like that.”

“I can talk for myself, Jilly,” Tommy says.

She looks over at him. “Okay, your witness.” She slaps Adam one more time for good measure.

“Ow!” Adam shrieks, jumping back. “You _are_ a bitch.”

“You were warned,” Jillian tells him.

“Don’t call my friend a bitch, douchebag,” Tommy says meanly.

Adam stares. “Hey, your bitch friend slapped me for no fucking reason.”

“She had a reason, but let’s roll it back. If you want to slap the sass out of me, try it.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“I dare you.”

“You dare me? Are you sure you wanna do that?”

“I double-dutch-fucking-dare you with cream and sugar and a buttload of cherries on top and a side of fucking guacamole!”

“I don’t want to hit you, Tommy!”

“Then why’d you say it, asshole?”

“I’m just so _mad!_ You make me insaaaaane!” Adam howls, fisting his hands in his hair and pulling on it, totally destroying his carefully created pompadour.

Monte steps forward. “Um,” he says. “This maybe isn’t going the way it was supposed to.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Neil adds unnecessarily. “Dude,” he says to his brother, “I’m about to bitch-slap you myself. You’re besmirching the family name right now, acting like a pissy douche.”

Adam glares at Neil and gives him a what-the-everloving-fuck scowl that can probably be seen from orbit. Neil scowls back. Détente.

Tommy wants out of here bad. Like, so bad it burns. This isn’t helping anything, it’s just making things horrible. The things Adam is saying are horrible. They hurt incredibly. It’s hard to believe this is the same person who is so gentle, so sweet, so loving, so open-hearted to everyone around him. Adam is nice to just about every freak on the planet, so how awful is Tommy that Adam would say such horrible things to him, to his face, in the hearing of their friends. Does the insanity defense cover it? Tommy knows he deserves it, it’s his fault mostly. Still, oh it hurts. He wants to go back to El Matador and scream at the waves some more and maybe just fall asleep and not bother waking up. That’s probably not an option right now. So. Apologize. Yeah, that’s the thing to do. He needs to apologize to make this clusterfuck end. He apologized to Skyler, he can do it for Adam, too. Why was Skyler nice about it? Time. That’s what he and Adam need – time. Time to let it fade and not hurt so much. He already offered to give everyone time by going away from the band. Why won’t Adam take it?

“’M sorry, Adam,” he says in the silence.

Adam turns from Neil to Tommy, touching his reddened cheek gingerly. “Why are you apologizing now? You couldn’t have done it a week ago? Hell, you couldn’t have just made sure none of this ever happened? I was doing okay a few weeks ago – you’re the one who got pissed because you thought I was looking at other boys. When I wasn’t, by the way.”

“That was wrong of me. I’m sorry.”

“Stop with the insincere apologies.”

“I’m not being insincere!” Tommy yells. Fuck Adam, what is his damage? Tommy hasn’t yelled so much at another human being in years. His throat hurts, his voice feels hoarse.

Monte glowers. He looks like he’s at the end of his rope. “You’re both acting like children. I am about two seconds from cracking your fool skulls together.”

Adam puts a hand on Monte’s shoulder, squeezes. “Just. Monte. It has to happen, we have to be done with this, I can’t stand it anymore.” His hand slides from Monte’s shoulder and he takes a couple of steps closer to Tommy, warily watching his handlers on the sidelines. No one stops him. “Tommy, this isn’t your fault but I did something for you I swore I’d never do again. You are everything to me, don’t you get that? You offered something I’d told myself I could never have and I just went batshit crazy, I didn’t want to look at it closely, I just wanted you. I can’t blame you for letting it happen. I’m an asshole.”

“Why’s it always about you and what you want?” Tommy asks indignantly. “I knew I was doing something wrong and I _wanted_ to stop but you’re not the only one who –“

“What were _you_ doing wrong?”

“Hurting you. But it hurt me, too, Adam, okay? It hurt me, too.”

Adam looks contrite and even a bit embarrassed, an unusual look for him. “You’re right, I’m selfish and pushy.” He sighs deeply. The fight has finally gone out of him. “It doesn’t make a difference anyway, I still want you.”

Tommy’s jaw drops. “You do?”

“Yes, Tommy, I do. I’m cursed like that. After all this I’m still in love with you. I’ve never been in love like this ever. You’re not Brad. You’re not like any of the others. You’re Tommy. That’s who I love. I swear. I can’t stop myself. I’m so fucked. This was the biggest gamble I ever took in my life and I knew better, but I did it anyway because it was you. You’re my only exception.”

It’s like all the breathing in the room has stopped and everyone is afraid to disturb the fragile peace. Tommy swallows. “But… then why did you go out with those guys right after?”

“Because I wanted to hurt you back.”

Tommy covers his face with his hands again. It’s too much.

“I’ll stop now,” Adam says quietly. “I’ve learned from it. Monte’s right, I should have known better. I promise to leave you alone from now on. Just, you have to stay in the band and you have to be my friend. I won’t survive if you don’t do that.”

“No. No,” Tommy whispers.

“You won’t be my friend?” Adam sounds hurt.

“No,” Tommy repeats. “I mean yes.”

“Tommy?”

Tommy’s hands drop. Good thing his hair is in his face, although maybe that’s a bad thing, maybe he needs for Adam to see his face. He can’t do this, not with words.

“Are you saying you’re still – you still…” Adam asks, wonderingly.

Tommy nods.

Adam is past Sutan and Neil and Monte and even Jillian way before they can get into action and stop him. He grabs Tommy _hard_ and his hands crush Tommy’s biceps. He doesn’t stop coming, either; he pushes until Tommy stumbles backwards, until Tommy’s head bangs against the wall. One of Adam’s hands goes behind his head to cushion it, the other goes to his waist, and Adam mashes him into the wall. “Tommy, what?” he murmurs, his tone somehow sharp and soft all at once. “Do you mean it?”

Tommy reaches up with his good hand and draws his bangs behind his ear. Adam’s face is right there, his lips are almost touching Tommy’s.

“Tommy, oh god, Tommy, baby.”

“Don’t call me baby,” Tommy whispers.

“I can’t not,” whispers Adam, bringing their lips together.

Tommy opens immediately for Adam, lets Adam slot right back into that place in his life. Where he belongs. It feels right even though there’s danger all around them. How can this possibly work? He should not let this happen, but he can’t not.

Adam kisses him tenderly, thoroughly.

“My virgin eyes!” Neil bellows. “Get a room!”

Everyone else tells Neil to shut the fuck up.

“Hey, he’s not your brother,” Neil protests.

“Neil, out,” says Monte.

Adam doesn’t even stop kissing Tommy during the fracas; it’s like they’re alone. He pulls back the tiniest fraction. “I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t mean any of it. I’m ashamed of myself.”

“You were hurting,” Tommy says softly. “I understand.”

“Oh god, I don’t deserve you.”

“I’m not that great. I’m scared I’m going to hurt you more.”

Adam rubs their noses together. “I’ll chance it if you will,” he whispers. “Am I worth a chance?”

Tommy nods minutely. “Make them leave,” he whispers.

Not relinquishing Tommy, Adam turns and looks over his shoulder. Tommy peers out from behind Adam’s body.

The room is empty except for Monte, who stands in the middle of the living room. “Everything okay now?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Adam says with a wry smile.

“Tommy?” asks Monte.

Tommy nods. He can’t trust himself with words beyond the circle of Adam’s arms.

“You are a lot of trouble, you two,” Monte says. “Worth every second of it. I’m proud of you both. But I won’t lie, I’ll be happy when we’re all back to being happy. Capeesh?”

“Thanks, Monte,” Adam says gratefully. “Let’s go,” he tells Tommy, sliding his hand down to catch Tommy’s and pull him towards the kitchen.

“Not that way,” says Monte. “Use the front door, they’re all hiding in the backyard.”

They sneak out the front and go half a block to find Adam’s car. Adam straps Tommy in – it’s still hard for him to manage the seat belt – and gets in the driver’s side and fires up the engine. “Can I take you to my place, baby?” Adam asks.

“Don’t call me baby,” Tommy says quietly.

“You have to let me use some endearments, I can’t manage without them. It’s not because I think you’re a baby. It’s because I love you so much.”

“Okay,” Tommy says.

“You can call me an endearment. You can call me anything you want.”

“Okay, douchebag.”

Adam laughs loud and long.

Tommy smiles shyly and gives Adam a quick peck on the cheek. “Take me home,” he says.


	9. Chapter 9

“I’mma cuddle you to within an inch of your life, douchebag.”

“That’s my endearment, you don’t have permission to use it,” Tommy grouses.

Adam laughs.

He hasn’t pushed Tommy at all for five days now.

Tommy’s still trying to figure out what he is to Adam other than a pretty face attached to a willing body. He knows it can’t be just that but he wants to figure it out, preferably on his own. It’ll seem less real if he asks Adam; he’s afraid of a canned answer. He already asked once and the answer was nice, not gonna lie, but why is it _love_ love, not just, you know, friend love? He doesn’t deny feeling it – he’s head over heels about Adam – but he can’t define the difference. Partly it’s Adam wanting him so much; but also it’s a weird feeling roiling around in his gut, not something that can be put in words. Sometimes he thinks he hears it in music, though.

While he’s trying to figure it out on his own, he’s also getting used to this thing between them. He’s pretty sure he caved in faster than he should have but that was out of fear that he’d lose Adam forever. Time heals; time can also separate. He still feels awkward in some ways, so he’s working his way through that. He can admit to himself now that he really wants and needs Adam. It’s just, he wants it to last. He doesn’t want them to burn through the relationship and then have it be over.

So they spend time together, not doing anything much. Adam snuggles him on the sofa while they watch stupid television shows, or experiments by making weird meals for them to pick over at night. Adam always shows up in the shower seconds after Tommy gets in, without an invitation, not that he needs one. At night in bed, he pushes and pulls at Tommy’s limbs until he’s got them slotted together the way he wants, tangled up like sleeping puppies.

They go to movies and restaurants and the beach; they walk the Griffith Park trails; they go to the Huntington Library and to small gigs at small venues where they can hide in the back; they play together at home, Tommy on the six-string acoustic and Adam just singing softly along. They re-finish the redwood patio and battle the bougainvillea that’s running amok over it. They make out on the sofa or by the pool.

They go off to their separate things, too, Adam out jogging in the morning or meeting with producers in the afternoon to work on the new album, Tommy tagging along with Monte to a new gig. He’s not ready to move in permanently even though Adam keeps hinting, but he is ready to bring over a couple more guitars. And some more clothes, even though he likes wearing Adam’s shirts around the house. He’s pretty sure Adam’s on board with that, too.

It’s all great, but the line is still there between them, micron-thin but unbroken. Tommy feels like he’s holding his breath, waiting for Adam to break that line. He’s not sure why it’s Adam’s job to break it, except for the fact that he himself can’t (or, he has to be honest with himself, won’t) figure it out. So Adam needs to be the one. Tommy’s used to being the dark star. Adam’s the supernova.

One night Tommy finishes up with the dishes and joins Adam, who’s slouching   
on the sofa in the dark, feet on the coffee table, watching L.A. glitter far down the hill. Adam pulls him in close, snugged against his side. Tommy curls up and lays his head on Adam’s shoulder, shoving his good arm between Adam and the sofa and the other over Adam’s waist.

“Comfy?” asks Adam.

“Yep,” Tommy says quietly.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“Only a penny?”

Adam lifts his hip and gets his wallet out of his back pocket. He takes out a crisp twenty and stuffs it into the front pocket of Tommy’s jeans and tosses the wallet on the table. “Twenty for your thoughts?”

Tommy snickers. “You’re so easy.”

“I am,” Adam agrees, pulling Tommy even closer as though that were possible. His fingers card through Tommy’s hair. “So can you talk? Just a little? For me?”

Tommy can’t say no; he knew this was coming. No matter how much he wants to, he can’t keep it inside. _Let it out in the fresh air,_ Monte had said. So he takes a deep breath and says, “I was born.”

“Thank god for that,” Adam laughs. “But you can skip ahead. I’ll find out about your childhood from your mom one of these days. Bet she has photo albums.”

“Bastard.”

“Not according to my parents.”

“Ha ha. So in high school most of my friends were gay and I wanted to be gay. They were cool, they didn’t give a shit what people thought, they were outcasts and it was like a, you know that thing, a badge of honor.”

“Like Jillian?”

“Yeah. So I wanted to be like them, you know? I thought the Depeche Mode guys were gay for the longest time. I wanted to be cool like that. I thought it was something you could decide to be. Jillian used to call me an intellectual bisexual.”

“You gave it a go?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“It didn’t work?”

“Not like I expected. It felt odd. Not bad, just like… I maybe wasn’t going to fall in love with a boy. Like ever. Like it didn’t seem possible. So that made it seem wrong. Sex is nice but it’s supposed to end up with being in love someday.”

Adam pets Tommy’s hair some more. “It’s okay, you’re not the only one who went through that.”

“But it wasn’t okay, I hurt Skyler’s feelings, I acted like an asshole. He wasn’t one of the tough cool kids, he was in the closet. I hurt him.”

“Have you talked to him at all since?”

Tommy fidgets and curls up tighter. “Jillian made me. I said sorry to him.”

“Friends now?”

Tommy nods his head against Adam’s chest. “Me and Jillian are going down to San Diego in a few weeks to see him.”

Adam kisses the top of Tommy’s head and rubs a hand soothingly up and down Tommy’s arm. “You told me that you did fall in love once.”

Tommy thinks back. He remembers Adam asking if he had ever been in love and he’d responded _yes_. At the time he’d thought it was a huge admission but maybe Adam didn’t get it then, doesn’t get it now.

“So was it just once?” Adam prompts again.

“Yeah.”

“Did she break your heart?”

Oh god. What a mess. “Adam,” Tommy complains, “you weren’t listening.”

Adam’s hand goes still on Tommy’s arm. “Tommy? Are you saying… oh for crying out loud, am I an idiot?” Adam smacks himself on the forehead. “I need to listen better, don’t I?”

“You listen lots. Just not always.” Tommy releases his tight grip on Adam to snatch the twenty dollar bill from his pocket and stuff it into Adam’s. “Twenty for your thoughts.”

“My thoughts?” Adam laughs weakly. “Tommy, Tommy, Tommy Joe, why do you think I kept kissing you and grabbing your hair and cuddling you?”

“You thought I was cute.”

“No, doofus. Because I was falling for you, deeper and deeper all the fucking time. Right down the rabbit hole.”

Tommy shuffles around. “Well, ditto, why do you think I kept kissing you back? God, that last concert, I was so afraid you’d never kiss me again.” He’d felt so desperate back then; when he’d worked up the nerve to watch the footage later, he had looked desperate, too.

Adam leans away and puts a finger under Tommy’s chin, pushes his face up. Tommy prefers to stay hidden. He won’t stop Adam, though, because Adam deserves more than Tommy’s given him so far. Adam’s eyes are deep and soft, smudged with emotion. “Honey, is it having sex with a guy that’s the problem?”

Tommy chews on his lower lip. “If you’re born either gay or straight, how come you can want it with the wrong person?”

“I’m the wrong person?”

“No! That’s not what I mean. It just, kind of, it feels awkward and I don’t know why. I want it but I don’t understand it.”

“I believe it’s possible to be bi.”

Tommy frowns. “But they say that’s just an excuse for gay people who don’t want to admit it.”

“You do drive me insane, Tommy,” Adam says fondly and a little sadly. “It’s part of your charm.”

His charm is understated, Tommy thinks to himself. He hadn’t considered that his quiet charm could drive anyone, much less self-assured Adam, insane. He’s suffused with a feeling that’s heady and frightening at the same time. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand what love is supposed to be,” Tommy says.

“It’s a feeling, you know it inside.”

“Inside, yeah right,” Tommy says. “You can’t know what’s inside me. _I_ don’t even know what’s inside me.”

“If we figured it all out too fast, we’d get bored. But I think I know what you mean even if I can’t see inside your brain, silly. We’re all alone in our heads, sure, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to open up to the people we love.”

That thought is pretty alarming. “Monte says I can keep some secrets.”

“Secrets are okay but not if you feel ashamed of them.”

“I’m not ashamed of this.” Tommy fists his hand in Adam’s shirt, crumples it. “I know I freaked out but I can’t describe why.” This is what’s been bothering him so much: why he ran. If he’s in love with Adam, then sex shouldn’t freak him out. Maybe… maybe he doesn’t trust his own feelings, doesn’t trust that he really _is_ in love. Does he merely want to be in love? Although that’s crazy, too, because if he wants to be in love, why wouldn’t he go the easy route by choosing a girl? It’s easy to love Adam, but not so easy to be in love with him.

“You’re thinking too much,” Adam says, ruffling his hair. “Come on, share.”

“I think,” Tommy begins, halts. “I think maybe I left because I’m afraid of hurting you.”

Adam runs his fingertip along Tommy’s jaw. “I’m willing to take that chance so long as there’s the possibility that I get to keep you for the rest of my life.”

God almighty. Adam really does love him. Suddenly Tommy is less afraid of hurting Adam and more afraid that he’ll drive Adam insane, aka away. What if it doesn’t last? Tommy frowns. That would kill him for sure. “What if it’s not for that long?” he asks, just another one of those times he wishes he’d kept his mouth shut.

“What if it is? Do you want it to be?” Adam asks very seriously.

“Yes.”

Adam touches his lips to Tommy’s tenderly. “Then I’ll double down.”

“Your only exception?”

“The only one I ever want.”

Tommy relaxes marginally, watching Adam’s eyes, his soft smile. Something tight around his heart unfurls the smallest bit and it feels like freedom. Adam kisses him again, slowly, thoroughly, kitten licks and then deeply penetrating, one big hand covering his cheek, tilting his head. Tommy opens up, kisses back. It feels right. He’s not going to be scared. He won’t let himself do that anymore.

* * *

The next night Adam gets an emergency text from Monte: _babysitter bailed. help!!_

They show up at Casa Pittman within the hour. Monte apologizes for the short notice. “It’s important to Lisa’s parents, we gotta make a showing. Sure you two can handle the horde?”

“No worries, I can even change diapers,” Adam says reassuringly.

“Twice the diapers, twice the fun,” Lisa says, indicating the twins. “The girls are fed, the twins’ formula is ready in the fridge and here’s the feeding and bedtime schedule.”

“We’ve got it covered, we have both your cells, go enjoy.” Adam shoos them out the door.

Ariel and Aurora stretch out on the living room floor, crayons everywhere, drawing on big pads of paper. Beatrix crawls around the carpet busily. Bonzo the cat is perched on the top of a bookshelf, giving everyone in the room a filthy look.

“This is our house,” Ariel informs Tommy very seriously, as he sits down cross-legged next to her. She holds up the pad of paper. “This is our back yard and this is Bonzo and this is Mommy and this is Daddy.”

“Right, I can see the beard,” Tommy says. “Are _you_ in there?”

“I’m gonna be,” she says, applying herself again to the drawing.

“Where’s Aurora?”

“She has her own house.”

Tommy ponders that one. “Sisters, huh?” he says. “Who needs ‘em?”

She picks out a dark blue crayon and hands it to Tommy. “You draw your house. Adam!”

“What, sweetie?” Adam says from the couch where he’s holding Atticus.

“Come draw your house!”

“Later, okay? I’m taking care of your brother.”

Tommy looks up to smile at Adam. His eyes shift to the baby. “He’s got the weirdest look on his tiny face.”

“He does?” Adam peers at the baby. “You okay, buddy?”

“It’s like a thousand-year stare. I didn’t know babies could do that.”

“Oops,” Adam says. “I think I know what it means. Get the Diaper Genie, quick!”

They opt to change him on a towel on the floor because they’re afraid of making a mess on one of the beds, where Ariel insists that Mommy usually does it. She gives them highly suspicious-sounding advice throughout the process. Tommy finds the Diaper Genie amazing at first and then disgusting when he has trouble getting the used and extremely noxious diaper in it properly.

Adam looks up from velcroing the fresh diaper in place. “Forget that! Beatrix is escaping!”

Tommy drops the contraption and just barely rescues the toddler before she wedges her head in the cat door. “Hey, little girl, doncha want to stay in with us? Cold out there! Also, that’s Bonzo’s door. He might get mad.”

It’s totally downhill from there, in terms of decorum. Tommy never does figure out how to get the Diaper Genie totally closed so of course it stinks and they hide it in the guest bathroom and close the door on it. Baby formula gets all over _everything_. Aurora steps on the Oreo bag and grinds crumbs into the carpet. She and Ariel refuse to get in their nightgowns for an hour. Then they refuse to let the lights be turned out until their three favorite storybooks are read in full, first by Adam and then by Tommy. Bonzo deposits a hairball in the middle of the foyer. Beatrix has a crying jag, and Atticus burps up on Tommy because he forgot to use a burp towel. “It’s even in my hair,” he says mournfully, patting the baby’s back and making a frowny face at Adam, who has the nerve to laugh.

Finally the babies are in their cribs and the girls’ door is closed with lights out. Tommy and Adam meet up again in the midst of the living room carpet, crawling around on hands and knees to pick up the stray crayons and Barbies and picture books and snack plates and building blocks and Fantanimals.

“Look at you,” says Adam.

“What? I have throw-up in my hair, don’t give me grief,” says Tommy.

Adam smiles affectionately. “How can you think you’re anything but amazing?”

Tommy tries to blow his stiff bangs out of his eyes. “Throw-up. In my hair.”

“I see it. You’re gorgeous.”

“It’s not my best look.”

Adam leans forward, balanced on his arms, and gives Tommy a quick kiss. “Gorgeous,” he repeats. “Also sweet and smart and creative and talented and loving.”

The baby monitor on the coffee table gurgles.

“Uh oh.”

Crying ratchets up from a gurgle to a scream.

“I’ll get her,” Adam offers, climbing to his feet.

* * *

Tommy wakes up on the couch, his head in Adam’s lap, Bonzo warming his feet, and Beatrix asleep on his chest while Adam’s arm curls protectively around both of them so she doesn’t fall off. The odor of baby poo hangs faintly in the air. He hears soft voices, male and female. “Adam? Yeesh, it smells like ass in here.”

“Hush, don’t wake up Beatrix. Let Lisa take her to bed.”

Lisa and Monte come in from the foyer (where Adam had cleaned up Bonzo’s little gift); they look tired but pleased. Apparently the sight of their living room, still covered in crap, doesn’t bother them.

“Looks like everyone survived,” Monte says quietly.

“Have a good time?” whispers Adam.

“It was wonderful,” Lisa murmurs. Monte takes her coat and she goes to the couch to lift Beatrix carefully from Tommy’s arms. “Thank you so much.” She heads for the bedroom wing.

Monte gives Tommy a hand up. “That was awesome of you guys, love ya both,” he says. He’s still watching them a bit warily, like he’s uncertain of the fragile rapport but heartily in favor of it. “Looks like you had some issues,” he adds, noticing Tommy’s shirt, pants and hair.

“I’m gonna make Adam do the laundry.”

“Hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

“Nope. Ask anytime.”

Back at Adam’s house Tommy pulls a crayon and a folded drawing out of his pocket and sits at the kitchen island while Adam gets a beer from the fridge for him, popping it with an opener.

“Thanks,” says Tommy. He unhooks the elbow brace and leaves it on the counter, rubbing at his arm where the stupid thing has been itching like a mother. He picks up the crayon and starts to draw on a blank spot on the paper.

“What’s that?” asks Adam, taking a drink from his own glass of water while kicking off his shoes and socks.

“Ariel drew me,” Tommy says. “See?”

“Looks just like you.”

“Yeah. Pre-throw-up.”

“What’s this?” Adam points at the part that Tommy drew. It looks like a sun.

“That’s you,” says Tommy.

Adam grins. “I’m like the fucking Sun King? Sick!”

“You’re a supernova,” Tommy corrects. He draws a small round dot nearby. “That’s me, I’m a dark star.”

“Ooooh, dark star, nice,” Adam says. “Very mysterious.”

Tommy scrawls all over the small dot.

“What’s that?” Adam asks, puzzled.

“That’s the supernova’s shadow.”

Adam frowns. He looks worried. “Are you telling me something?”

Tommy sees the look and is horrified that he put it there. That wasn’t what he meant to do. “No, I like it there, Adam.”

“In the dark?”

“It’s not dark,” Tommy says. “See? It’s just a shadow. I like to hide just a little bit.”

Adam shakes his head. “You shouldn’t hide. You are so amazing, Tommy Joe, and everyone needs to know that.”

“Not everyone. Just you.” Tommy puts down the crayon and reaches his arm around Adam’s waist. Adam draws him in immediately, crushes Tommy to his chest, squeezes so hard Tommy thinks his ribs will crack. “You make me feel safe.”

“Oh god,” Adam blurts out. “I want to make love to you, Tommy. Please.”

Tommy takes a breath, releases it, tilts his head enough to press a kiss to Adam’s jaw. “How are you so cheesy.”

Cheesy or not, Tommy wants this. Wants it like burning. Speaking of cheesy.

“I’m serious, I’m gonna do it,” Adam warns, squeezing harder.

“Caveman,” says Tommy.

“You have no idea.” Adam shifts one arm beneath Tommy’s knees and picks him right up off the stool.

 _Oh._ Now he's in for it. Thank fuck.


	10. Chapter 10

Adam wants to _make love_ to him. Tommy’s brain supplies the air quotes. Adam is for-real fireman-carrying him to the master bedroom. Oh yay, the ginormous bed.

“My hair,” he reminds Adam. He can’t have sex with baby throw-up in his hair. He has standards, damn it all.

“I know, darling.” Adam detours to the master bathroom.

“Shower?” Tommy asks hopefully.

“I don’t have the patience for that right now,” Adam says, depositing Tommy in the middle of the bathroom. He grabs the hem of Tommy’s tee and tugs it upward. “Arms,” he says, and Tommy lifts his arms so the shirt can be pulled over his head and thrown in a corner.

Adam turns on the faucet and the sink fills with warm water. Hand on the nape of Tommy’s neck, he pushes him over the sink and uses a cup to pour water over his head, then swirls the long strands of blond hair in the water until the stiffness loosens. “Better, right?” He gets a towel while Tommy flings his wet hair back, sending an arc of water across the bathroom. “Thank god for tile,” Adam mutters, shaking his head. He wraps Tommy’s hair in the towel and rubs vigorously. He wets a corner of the towel and wipes off Tommy’s face. “All fresh and clean,” he says, leaning in and kissing Tommy. He runs his thumb over the freshly-kissed lips, back and forth, back and forth.

It’s driving Tommy crazy. He could maybe come from just that. “I, you – um,” Tommy murmurs, touching his tongue to Adam’s thumb.

Adam kisses Tommy again, slowly, softly, then crouches and undoes Tommy’s button and zipper. He looks up. “Yes, honey?”

“Nothing.”

Adam smiles. He knows it’s not nothing. He lifts each of Tommy’s feet in turn, removing shoes and socks. Then he slides the jeans and underwear together down Tommy’s hips, leaving them low on his thighs. He folds his fingers around Tommy’s half-hard cock and kisses the tip.

Tommy gasps. His ass is planted against the marble counter and it’s cold. He grips the counter edge with tense fingers. “Fuck,” he grinds out when Adam licks a stripe from base to tip.

“Love your pretty little cock,” Adam breathes against Tommy’s inner thigh.

“What’d I tell you about calling me little,” Tommy hisses rhetorically.

“That you love it?” Adam asks with a smirk.

Tommy thinks back. Maybe he hadn’t said it out loud that other time when Adam used the word _little_ to describe his favorite body part. “Douchebag.”

“Curtain rod,” Adam responds.

“What?”

Adam shrugs. “Random endearment.”

“Oh.” Tommy kind of likes that. “Shouldn’t we fuck?”

“Working on it, baby. First I have to know you want it.” Adam slides his arms around Tommy’s ass, hugging him tight, buries his face right in Tommy’s crotch and inhales.

And if that isn’t the sexiest fucking thing ever. Tommy takes a deep, deep breath. “I want this,” he says. “I want you.”

Adam tilts his head back, looks up, smiling happily, stubble scratching at Tommy’s belly. “Thank you for telling me, baby.”

Tommy pets Adam’s hair awkwardly. It was hard to do but he’s glad he said it. Tommy was never in love with Skyler so maybe that is what made having sex with him uncomfortable. But he knows, now he knows, he’s fucking certain, he’s really in love with Adam and it’s so different. Different from anything he’s ever felt or known.

Adam rises gracefully, grabs Tommy’s hand and hauls him into the bedroom. Tommy stumbles the whole way because of the jeans that are still halfway down his thighs. He falls face first on the bed, struggling with the stupid things. Adam helps by grasping the legs of the jeans and holding on while Tommy crawls out of them and rolls over on his back, his hard cock against his stomach and his hair still damp.

“Why am I always the only one who’s naked?” Tommy whines.

“Because you’re spectacularly gorgeous and I enjoy looking at you?” Adam crawls onto the bed and hovers over Tommy. He leans down and smacks a loud kiss on Tommy’s mouth. Tommy pulls at Adam’s shirt, but Adam apparently isn’t ready for getting undressed; he lies down on top of Tommy, as usual ensnaring him like a boa constrictor, getting comfortable.

What is it with fully clothed Adam cuddling naked Tommy? Does he have some weird fetish? Kinky fucker. “Take your clothes off, you’re not fucking me while you’re dressed.”

“Brat,” says Adam, not moving away, just rocking gently. “Making love, by the way.”

Adam’s jeans feel too rough against Tommy’s bare-naked dick. Plus his arm is aching. “Ow, my arm,” he fake-moans, knowing it will get Adam to back off.

Adam lets up the pressure. “Sorry! Did I hurt your arm?”

“It’s better now.”

Adam sits up. He runs his hand down Tommy’s torso. “Don’t move.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “You totally don’t trust me.”

“I totally do, don’t move.”

Adam reaches over to the bedside table and scrapes the drawer open, finds Astroglide and a condom and throws them on the other side of the bed. He turns off the light on the table, leaving only the Mickey Mouse nightlight in the bathroom on. “Get your hand off your junk, that’s mine now.”

Tommy makes an epic bitch-face but puts his hand back on the sheet. He feels exposed; he’s glad of the relative darkness. Shadows can be nice. There’s enough light to see Adam by, although not enough to count freckles by.

Adam peels out of his shirt, then jeans and underwear, slinging each over the side of the bed and onto the floor somewhere. Naked at last, he turns Tommy to him, holding him lightly, careful of his arm. “I want to kiss you for awhile, is that okay, baby? You’re not the only one who was afraid at the last concert.”

Tommy’s on board with that. He snuggles closer and turns his face up for Adam’s kisses. He moans when Adam sucks on his tongue, practically whimpers when Adam tongue-fucks his mouth. He runs his hands along Adam’s silky-soft skin, exploring, imagining he can _feel_ the freckles. Adam’s dick is snugged up against his own, hot and hard.

Adam pulls off with a moist sound. “Your lips are so soft, Tommy, oh my god, you’re so, god I love you so much.” Adam keeps babbling; he never really stops except when his mouth is occupied. “Open your legs for me, baby.”

 _Baby this, baby that._ Will Adam ever listen? Tommy figures he’ll let it go – just this once – since they’re in bed.

Adam’s hand pushes one knee up, then lightly strokes the insides of Tommy’s thighs close to his balls without touching them. Tommy shudders involuntarily. Then Adam is opening the lube, multitasking because he’s kissing Tommy’s throat at the same moment. He inserts a finger into Tommy’s hole, making Tommy cry out.

“Good? I’ll make everything so good for you, promise,” Adam whispers against his neck, nipping at his ear, tongue playing with his earrings.

“Tickles,” gasps Tommy.

Adam stops – both the hand and the tongue. “Tickles? Where?”

“Don’t stop! Jesus.”

Adam puts another finger in him, pushing in and out gently. “You’re really tight, Tommy.”

“Shut up, you’re embarrassing me.”

“Hush, it’s okay.” Adam’s hand comes away again and he’s nudging at Tommy’s legs, arranging one over his shoulder. Adam moves in between his legs and pats the other one.

“Fucking awkward,” Tommy mutters, cursing under his breath. He feels ridiculous in this position.

“Fucking perfect,” Adam says. “Get your other leg up, it’ll be easier that way.” He pushes a pillow underneath Tommy’s ass. There’s the sound of a crinkling condom package.

Great. Tommy is on his back with his legs in the air like a bug that can’t right itself. He feels like he’s flailing around, unanchored, so he reaches over his head for the rails of the groovy modern headboard and hangs on for dear life. Gay sex is so weird. But this isn’t gay sex so much as Adam sex, and he loves so much about Adam: his sweet caution, his masculine smell, his bossiness, his laughter. Mostly he loves that Adam loves him so much. And then all of a sudden… poof! it’s like a light bulb popping on above his head – maybe Adam loves Tommy for the same reason. Maybe Tommy needs to make sure that Adam knows how much Tommy loves him. Maybe that’s the whole secret.

Maybe…

Oh fuck. There’s so much lube on his ass that Adam slides right in. “Jesus M. Christ,” Tommy breathes, his fists clenching and unclenching on the headboard. That dick is outrageously gigantic. Not that Tommy’s got anything to compare it with but it feels like it’s going to split him open. It’s not that he’s in love with Adam’s dick. He fell in love with Adam, and the big dick came with. He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to this feeling. It does kind of hurt but he trusts that will ease up. Because yeah, Adam’s _inside_ him and that fucks with his mind in the most amazing way.

Then Adam is there with him, sliding arms under his back, hands on his shoulder blades. “Oh shit!” Adam yelps abruptly.

“Huh?”

Adam has stilled completely. “Oh, ha ha.”

“Is something wrong?” Tommy opens his eyes and watches Adam. Adam is looking at his arm.

“Nosferatu is staring at me,” Adam admits sheepishly. “Even upside-down, it’s weirding me out.”

Tommy snickers. Damn tat. When he got it he wasn’t thinking of how it would look while being ass-fucked by Adam Lambert. Maybe getting drilled from behind isn’t such a bad idea after all.

“Cock-blocked by Nosferatu,” Adam bitches. “Unbelievable.” Then he starts to laugh, causing interesting sensations inside Tommy’s ass. His head falls onto Tommy’s chest, he’s shaking with it so badly. “This is nuts.”

“If you can’t take the heat get outta the bass player,” Tommy says. “Ow, geez. Stop laughing.”

The shaking subsides and Adam lifts his head. He studiously avoids looking at Tommy’s left arm. Tommy can tell it’s taking a lot of effort. “I can’t believe you, you act so Mr. Big Guy and then you sleep with a nightlight and you’re scared of a tat.”

“I am a little bit scared of your sleeve, no lie.” Adam buries his face against Tommy’s neck – the side away from the vampire – and bites the join of his shoulder.

“Oh,” Tommy murmurs approvingly, eyes closing, lips parting. “More.”

Adam gives him more. More biting, more kissing, more hugging, more silly endearments, more time. “Tommy love? What do you need? Are you ready? Just try to relax and it won’t hurt, I swear, I promise.”

“Gimme a kiss, flowerpot!” Tommy snarks, his eyes snapping open. “I am not a ten-dollar whore!”

“Hey, I’m trying to _make love_ here, dude!” But Adam is laughing when his lips collide with Tommy’s. The kiss is dreadfully messy and awkward, and then it gets deep and dirty. Tommy digs his ragged nails into Adam’s back and arches to stroke his cock against Adam’s stomach. The angle is very awkward but far from impossible and it feels unbelievable when Adam starts to thrust, slowly and then faster. The kissing goes back to sloppy but this is why Tommy wants face-to-face sex. He craves the connection. He doesn’t talk all that much but a mouth is used for communication after all, doesn’t matter if it’s talking or kissing, Tommy will take either. He blindly grasps for Adam, rakes his hands through Adam’s thick hair and cups Adam’s face, trying to concentrate on kissing Adam even if Adam’s focus is for shit. This is Tommy’s way of telling Adam how he feels.

“Oh my god, baby, you are so amazing,” Adam says, clenching Tommy tighter, moving faster, rougher.

Tommy’s dick is still caught between them and the friction is delicious. He’s going to come any second.

“Come all over me,” Adam whispers.

Oh fuck. Tommy does. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in an _oh_ of pleasure, a single moan escaping. He whites out for a moment there, just riding the waves of his own orgasm, and then riding out the waves of Adam’s until they collapse together, muscles gone lax.

Adam’s still inside him. It doesn’t hurt anymore, it just feels incredible and he can’t believe it. _Inside._

Adam curls around him, being careful of his healing arm. When he wants to pull out, Tommy stops him with a squeeze of his hand on Adam’s wrist.

“I love you,” Adam whispers into Tommy’s ear.

Tommy squirms and wriggles in Adam’s arms.

“Baby,” Adam says carefully. “If you ever feel like you need to go off by yourself, you know, like the other night.” It’s awkward, but Adam continues. “Please tell me first.”

“Okay,” Tommy whispers against Adam’s neck.

“I know I don’t own you but you have to let me worry about you, take care of you just a little.”

Tommy gets that. Tommy’s selfish when he wants to be alone; Adam’s selfish when he wants to run Tommy’s life. They’ll just have to work it out between them somehow.

“I’ll tell you first,” he promises.

* * *

Tommy wakes up alone in bed. He yawns hugely and shakes the sleep from his eyes. Where’s Adam? Tommy slides out of bed, pulls on his boxers and the tee-shirt that Adam was wearing in bed, and walks barefoot to the bathroom to splash water on his face and take a piss. It’s kind of cold but the east-facing kitchen will be warmed up with sunlight by now. He pads into the hallway, scratching his ass and combing through his hair with his fingers. He’s pretty sure the word _bedhead_ was invented to describe the rat’s-nest he wakes up with every morning.

He passes through the big room at the back of the house and into the kitchen where Adam, in sweats and a fresh tee, is at the stove, stirring what smells like bacon and eggs. Two place settings are already on the island, with juice in glasses and a fresh pot of coffee ready to be poured.

“Hey,” says Tommy.

Adam looks over his shoulder and his smile is brighter than the California sun. “Morning, sleepyhead. Welcome to the rest of your life.”

Tommy nearly gasps aloud, it’s like his second epiphany in a mere few hours: days and months and years of waking up and finding Adam making breakfast for him. Playing music together and babysitting for Monte and Lisa and maybe even getting their own little tykes somehow, somewhere. Planning trips and going on tour; reading books while curled up together, watching movies, holidays with their friends and families, making love, sleeping together. It’s too much all at once.

Tommy stumbles backwards, his hand over his mouth; he turns and runs outside because he needs the air. _Let it out in the fresh air._ He can hear Adam coming after him with worried words and questions. He falls on his knees in the morning-damp grass, doubled up, scared, exhilarated. Adam hits the ground behind him, puts his arms around Tommy and holds him fiercely tight. Finally, fucking finally, with nothing more than a handful of simple words, Adam has managed to step right over that bright line between them and now Tommy is broken open, vulnerable to the world and to danger and to Adam. And Adam is reaching right inside him and touching his soul. Tommy can’t open his eyes, he’s lost, he’s shaking, Adam is whispering sweet silliness into his ear, Tommy can’t even understand the words, as though things have stopped making sense. He feels like a child closing his eyes to imagine a wonderful world that’s just over there if only he can find it… until a far-off voice cries out his name, calling him back, back, and he crashes into reality, human and ordinary again.

Adam’s talking. Adam’s always talking. That’s just Adam. He’s allowed to talk. “Tommy, look at me,” Adam implores, turning to kneel over Tommy, cradling his face in gentle hands. His shadow falls over Tommy and Tommy comes back to himself, here in the shadow of the supernova where he feels at home, safe. Tommy’s eyes open and he can feel them welling with unshed tears.

“Oh honey, honey,” Adam’s beloved voice says.

He closes his eyes fast, but not before a traitorous tear squeezes out and prickles against his cheek. He feels Adam’s lips on first one eyelid, then the other. Adam presses his mouth to Tommy’s, all caught up in gloss and hair and tears. “It’s okay, love, I’ve got you.” Adam’s hands pulls his own around Adam’s back. “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

“Adam,” Tommy says brokenly, fisting his hands in the back of Adam’s shirt.

Adam lets out a breath, encircles Tommy firmly in long arms, kisses the top of his head, squeezes him hard. He seems to understand what Tommy isn’t saying out loud: _Adam, I need you. Adam, I love you._

“I’m never letting go, Tommy Joe, never ever.”

Tommy isn’t going to cry, no matter what. There’s no crying in rock and roll. But he can’t stop one shaky sob from escaping his throat, and then it’s all over and it’s okay and they’re going to be okay. He can breathe again. His muscle tone just disappears and he collapses and Adam catches him, holds him up.

“It’s safe, we’re home,” says Adam.

How does Adam even know these things? Read his mind like that? _I love you,_ Tommy mouths silently against Adam’s shirt.

“I love you, too,” says Adam.

 

THE END

Although there will be a sweet little epilogue. ☺


	11. Epilogue

Three weeks later and Tommy’s wondering what the hell he had been so worked up about. Jillian’s given him so much shit he’s considering defriending her. Okay, not really, but that girl can be merciless when she teases.

“You are such an idiot,” she had said over coffee a few days ago. “But you got there in the end, gotta give you credit for that, Thomasina.”

“Just stamp _faggot_ on my forehead and call it good,” Tommy had answered, throwing an unopened Equal packet right into her coffee.

His mom had taken it quite well. "I think I knew," she had said, hugging him. "You bagged a hot one," was all his sister had to say, and she delivered it with a knowing smirk.

Not that it’s all daisies and butterflies; Adam and Tommy are still careful around one another and a little awkward at times. After all they had said some pretty shitty things to one another and you can’t unsay what you said. You can’t even forget it, not really.

Adam’s still scared that Tommy will bolt. Tommy blames himself for that, but Adam has a way of taking it way beyond reasonableness. Only a week ago Adam had said something about how he would bear the burden of making sure they stay together. Tommy had protested that he’s a grownup and could shoulder his share of whatever. Adam had said that he’d be strong enough for both of them. Tommy had reminded him that he’s not a weakling. Adam had agreed in principle but continued with a run-on sentence that made little sense but there was something in it about how Tommy was struggling now with something that was taking his energy, so let Adam hold the burden for now. _You will share it when you are ready. Until then I am the safeguard of our love._

WTF? Adam has a buttload of the weirdest ideas ever. Tommy once dreamed that Adam was a psychiatrist, sitting in a big leather chair with glasses perched jauntily on his nose and a pad of paper in his lap, fountain pen poised, while Tommy laid on a nearby couch and kept trying to talk Adam into fucking him on said couch.

Absurd dreams notwithstanding, Tommy can’t believe that he got what he wanted. All those months of longing for Adam in an academic instead of a real way because it was _the love that dared not be_ , of being jealous over anyone else that Adam looked at or talked to, not to mention slept with, and here he is, Adam’s one and only. His only exception. The only purportedly straight guy that Adam’s willing to take a chance with. The plus side of that is he gets cuddled as much as he could ever want, he gets to make out with the rock star several times a day, and he wakes up in the morning and sometimes Adam hasn’t beaten him out of bed: sometimes Adam’s big head is cushioned on his own dainty and probably uncomfortably sharp shoulder. He doesn’t even mind a little drool and a few soft snores. Other times he wakes up ensnared in Adam’s grip while Adam snuffles in his sleep and breathes damply on the back of his neck. Tommy lingers unmoving for minutes, maybe hours, so as not to wake up Adam because oh, he loves being held like that.

And then there are the times when those fucking loud chirping birds wake him up and it’s sunny and gorgeous and he throws on Adam’s shirt and goes to the kitchen to find out what Adam is experimenting with for breakfast. Adam makes all Tommy’s favorites – cheesy omelets, bacon and sausage, hash browns – even though he rarely eats those things himself. Just to be sweet, just to see Adam’s smile, Tommy sometimes eats a low-fat yogurt or a handful of blueberries. He doesn’t exactly love the stuff but he does love Adam.

Adam looks so happy all the time now. He’s working with producers on music and that makes him happy. Tommy is happy, too, because he’s playing gigs with Monte and Isaac and Allison and other friends. Sometimes after a late-night session he lets himself into Adam’s dark house and sneaks into the guest bedroom to shower off the ashtray and spilled-beer stench of the club, then crawls under the covers with Adam, who always wakes up at least a little bit. Then they have sleepy sex or if Tommy’s too wasted or Adam’s too tired, they just snuggle and whisper for a little while and fall asleep in the middle of each other’s sentences.

When he needs Tommy-time he goes back to his own apartment and enjoys the solitude for awhile. Adam comes over sometimes. They’re repairing the karma of the apartment. After all it’s not merely the place where they were mad at each other, it’s also the place where they found out, well. That they wanted each other. It seems like years ago now.

In the late afternoon on a Wednesday, Mrs. Porter sits at Tommy’s little kitchen table across from him. The innards of an old radio are spread across the table. Walter wanders in and out the open front door.

“Anybody home?” comes a voice from the door and then Adam’s big boots are clomping into the apartment and something thuds to the floor.

“Kitchen,” calls Tommy. Adam appears around the corner, waves at Mrs. Porter, and leans over as Tommy tilts his head up for a quick kiss.

“Hey, Mrs. Porter,” Adam says.

Her eyes twinkle. “Hello, Adam. How are you?”

“I am so good, what’s up with you?”

“Tommy is fixing my old radio.”

Tommy crimps a wire and then wraps it around a loose screw. “This thing is so cool, it has tubes.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Adam says. “Mrs. Porter, can I borrow Tommy for a sec? I have something for him.”

Tommy sets down the wire cutters. “What is it?”

“In the living room.” Adam grins, full of mystery.

Tommy sighs. Adam’s excitability can be so exhausting. He trails Adam into his small living room, where a big guitar case waits invitingly. “For me?” asks Tommy, looking over at Adam, who nods eagerly. Tommy crouches and undoes the clasps, opens the case. “Wow,” he says quietly. He runs his hand down the neck, then lifts it out.

“You like it?” Adam asks, anxious now.

Tommy takes it to the sofa and sits down and tries the strings and the fret board. “It’s gorgeous.” He fiddles with the tuning pegs and then plays a couple of riffs up and down the neck. He looks up at Adam. “Why are you giving me an acoustic bass?”

Adam is so excited he’s practically bouncing on his toes. “You know how I’m going to sing on Idol?”

Tommy nods. He knows instinctively that Adam’s the best singer that ever appeared on American Idol so it makes sense that they invite him back. “You’re going to sing _Aftermath_ with Monte.”

“Nope! I’m doing it with Monte and Isaac and _you_.”

“Really?”

“Yes!”

Tommy sets the guitar on the sofa cushion and gets up and goes right into Adam’s open arms. “It’s too much.”

Adam holds him tightly. “What’s too much?”

“You shouldn’t give me things that are so expensive.”

“Why not?”

Because what does Tommy have to give back to Adam? Adam’s always going to have more money, more fame, more power, more confidence, more everything than Tommy. “You give me too much. Too much everything.”

“That’s insane, Tommy Joe. Nothing will ever be enough. “

Tommy rubs his face against Adam’s shirt. “But there’s nothing I can give you.”

“What are you talking about? Aren’t you mine? Didn’t you give yourself to me?”

Tommy sure as shit hopes that Mrs. Porter isn’t overhearing this conversation. It’s embarrassing enough in general without adding eavesdropping to the mix.

Adam musses Tommy’s hair and whispers in his ear, “There’s nothing in the universe I’d trade for you, love.”

“Okay,” Tommy whispers back, pulling away, feeling like his face is beet-red. He slips away, back into the kitchen and into his chair, picking up the screwdriver and slanting the radio for the best angle. He screws the cover plate back in place.

Adam comes in and kneels beside the table.

“I hope it was a nice present,” Mrs. Porter says.

“We’re going to be playing on American Idol next Thursday. Tommy’s playing acoustic bass,” Adam says.

“How wonderful! Be sure to tell me the channel, Tommy, because I’m going to invite the neighbors over to watch on TV.” Mrs. Porter looks very pleased.

“Do you watch Idol?” Adam asks.

“Sometimes. I really don’t like that boy who screams, though. You know the one?”

Adam and Tommy share a look and a smile. “Yes,” Adam tells her, “we know who you mean.”

After the radio is fixed and Tommy takes it back to Mrs. Porter’s apartment, they order Chinese takeout. Tommy plays with the new bass while Adam leafs through the latest issue of _Guitar Player_.

 _Waiting for Guffman_ is on cable so they cuddle on the sofa and watch it. That is, Adam watches it. Tommy crawls into Adam’s lap, arms tucked around Adam, face buried against his shirt. Yeah, he’s a little kitty-cat, he knows it, he doesn’t care anymore. Adam pets his hair, rubs his back, kisses his forehead, all kind of absently. Later they strip each other in the cramped bedroom and manage to have sex in Tommy’s small bed.

“Make love to me, lamp shade,” Tommy says in the middle of it.

“Stop trying to make me laugh,” Adam warns.

Tommy pays no attention to the warning because he likes Adam’s laugh.

Way early the next morning they sneak into the Farmer’s Market and get strawberry crepes. It’s a gamble but it’s a Thursday morning well before the Grove opens. Easy parking, no paps.

“I love this place,” Adam says.

Tommy nods in agreement. “It’s all kind of rickety and scratched-up and old.”

“Are you happy?” Adam asks for the millionth time.

“Stop asking me that,” Tommy says, forking more crepe into his mouth. “This stuff is fucking awesome. We should come here more.”

Adam spears a strawberry. “Only on weekdays before nine a.m.”

“Yeah, it’s a bitch being famous.”

Then there’s dinner at Adam’s mom’s place and Neil is coming and bringing his lady friend, as Adam calls her. Leila also brings up the two most awful words in the English language when put side by side: pot luck. Adam makes four disastrous messes in the kitchen before he’s satisfied with the chocolate-chip rugelach. On the plus side, Tommy gets to eat the experiments that look gross but taste great.

“What am I supposed to bring?” Tommy whines. “I don’t know how to bake anything.”

Adam kisses the corner of Tommy’s down-turned mouth. “This is from both of us, we’re bringing it as a couple.”

Okay, that’s silly but kind of sweet and there’s a cute smile that keeps trying to break out on Tommy’s face the whole drive over there. It only ends when he sees a car with San Diego plates in the driveway and attempts to bolt. Adam barely gets him in the house.

Tommy tries to stick to Adam from the front door to the kitchen but Eber manages to separate him from the pack and get him alone.

“I thought you were pretty groovy the first time I saw you,” Eber says ominously.

The man is seriously tall, as in taller-than-Adam tall. Everyone always tells Tommy that Eber’s such a laid-back dude but Tommy can’t see it. It’s easier now for Tommy to remember what the hell he was worked up out about for weeks there. He clenches and unclenches his fists almost involuntarily.

“So. You and Adam?” Eber asks. Eber has a great stink-eye.

“Yes, sir,” Tommy answers. He hasn’t called anyone _sir_ in years. A fleeting image of himself asking Eber for Adam’s hand in marriage makes him giggle nervously.

“You remember what I said before?”

Tommy nearly gags. Oh yeah, he remembers the not-so-veiled threat. He manages to nod.

“I’ll be watching.”

Adam bellows from the kitchen, “Tommy, get your tiny ass in here!” and Tommy gratefully scurries off under the baleful glare of his prospective father-in-law.

In the kitchen, Leila gives him a huge hug; he fist-bumps Neil and gets introduced to Marion.

It’s a good thing that dinner is tasty because it gives Tommy something to focus on as he sits directly across from Eber’s watchful eyes at the dining table.

“Tommy, what do you do for a living?” Eber asks, munching on a biscuit.

“Huh?” Tommy looks up, fork poised halfway to his mouth. “You mean me?”

Eber nods.

“Dad,” says Adam.

“Let him speak for himself,” Eber says.

Tommy sets his fork down carefully. “I play bass in Adam’s band.”

“But there’s no tour right now.”

“Oh. Um. I play gigs with other friends.”

Eber pops a home-made onion ring in his mouth and chews thoughtfully. “That can’t pay much. I know, because I was supporting Adam while he did that kind of thing.”

“Eber, honestly,” says Leila.

“Dad, you _helped_ ,” Adam says, exasperated. “And I appreciate it, but I was paying my own way.”

Eber favors his son with a look.

“Mostly,” Adam throws in.

“I’m just asking reasonable questions,” Eber says. “Does he expect you to support him?”

Adam glares at his father even harder especially because Neil is snickering behind his hand. “The live DVD is going on sale soon and he’s going to get residuals from that. Plus he’s doing session work with other musicians. And other stuff, I’m sure, so geez, leave him be, would you?”

Tommy raises his hand like he’s in class. They all look at him. “Your dad’s right, I can answer for myself.” He lowers his hand to the table and focuses on his plate. “I know how to live cheap and that’s all I’m doing, and if I need to, like, be a Culligan man again I can do it. You shouldn’t just assume I’m some kind of gold-digger.” He lifts his eyes and stares right at Eber. To his surprise, Eber is smiling at him and it’s even kind of a nice smile.

“All I really care about,” Eber says in a much friendlier way, “is that my boys are happy and loved. That, and successful.”

“Thanks, Dad, you bastard,” Adam says. “You think that makes up for it?”

“It’s okay,” Tommy interjects. “He’s right to care about you and stand up for you.”

“I can stand up for myself.”

“All righty then,” says Leila, tapping her fork on her glass. “Everyone here can stand up for themselves. We’re all wonderful people and we’re having a delightful _family_ meal and I’m happy to welcome both Marion and Tommy to this gathering. Now it’s time for dessert. Tommy, would you help?”

Tommy’s grateful for an excuse to leave the room if only for a moment. There’s not much to help with but in the kitchen he gets a sly hug from Leila and a whispered “You make my son happy and I adore you for it” in his ear.

During dessert, Eber keeps up the questioning, this time fixing Neil in his sights. “So I’m wondering when I’ll have some grandchildren.”

“Dad, be more uncool, I dare you,” Neil says.

“At least he’s paying attention to you,” Adam says.

“For a fucking change,” Neil grouses.

“This rugelach is perfect,” Leila throws in. “Is this my recipe?”

“Mom, don’t try to redirect, we’re laying into Dad.”

Leila smiles sneakily at Tommy, who grins back.

Neil looks at Adam. “Right now I feel like the attention-deprived child. Like _I’m_ the one sitting here with a _special_ friend. Seriously, I could whelp a rainbow of mutants and he wouldn’t even notice.”

“Deal, bitch,” Adam crows. “Marion, are you sorry you’re here?”

“Not at all,” she answers. She’s a bit quiet – hard not to be around a motor mouth like Neil – but looks like she can hold her own if need be. “Neil warned me ahead of time.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Eber says. The man has laser focus.

“Kids? You want grandchildren?” Neil says. “Don’t look at me, I’m not ready.”

Leila clears her throat. “Eber, you know, Adam might want children. You didn’t include him.”

“That’s right,” Adam says. “Tommy and I haven’t discussed kids but we might want them.” He smiles fondly at Tommy, who is blushing deeply. “Dogs first, though.”

“I already have a baby,” Tommy says.

All conversation halts. Eber’s fork actually slips out of his grasp and clutters noisily on his plate.

Oops. Now what did he say wrong? Tommy grimaces to himself.

“Tommy?” Adam asks. “Is there something in your past that you haven’t shared with me?”

They are all staring at Tommy, fascinated and a bit horrified. Oh. It honestly takes Tommy a moment to understand what they are thinking. “No,” he says, “not that. I bought Beatrix off Lisa and Monte.”

“Say what?”

“I thought you knew.”

Adam laughs. “Oh! I get it now. So we’ve started our family already? See, Dad, you’re going to get everything you want if you wait patiently enough.”

Next, Tommy has to explain about Beatrix. Marion and Leila find it charming. Neil finds it hilarious. Eber isn’t so sure. “How can you afford a baby on residuals?”

“Eber!” Leila yells, unusually loud for her. “It was a joke!”

“But it might not be, someday.”

“This is great rugelach,” Neil says. “Can I just enjoy it in peace, damn it?”

* * *

On the way out, Eber holds out his hand to Tommy. “You better’d stay gay,” he says as they shake hands.

“Dad, you’re incorrigible.” Adam rolls his eyes and hauls Tommy away from his insane father.

In the car, Tommy gets out his phone and types a text.

“Well, that was slightly painful,” Adam sighs, pulling into the street.

Tommy shrugs. “It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be when I saw his car.”

“He likes you, he just likes to be a pain in the ass first.”

Tommy’s phone chimes and he reads the text.

“What’s up?” Adam asks.

“I want to see my baby,” Tommy tells him.

“It might be too late. For the kids?”

“Nope, Monte says come on over.”

That’s how they find themselves, twenty minutes later, sitting around Monte and Lisa’s messy living room. Lisa and Adam are thick as thieves on the sofa with the girls, reading picture books. Monte’s cross-legged on the floor, monitoring Atticus as he crawls around and puts everything he can find in his mouth. Tommy’s in the comfiest chair, snuggled up with Beatrix. She had cried a bit at first but then settled into Tommy’s embrace and closed her eyes.

Monte gives Tommy a questioning smile: _How’s it going?_

Tommy returns a thumbs-up while Adam isn’t watching, then re-settles his hand on Beatrix’s back, rubbing gently. Monte grins, pleased, and returns his attention to Atticus.

Tommy glances over at Adam, and after a moment Adam’s head comes up, as though he had heard something. He smiles sweetly at Tommy and mouths _I love you._

Tommy gives him a small, shy, secret smile in return.

The rest of his life is going to be fucking awesome.

 

THE ACTUAL END


End file.
